Absinthe

Crushed up fennel in your crushed up head,
Fresh picked on these eastern shores,
Ground with thoughts of another’s heart,
Pestle you’ve carried inside your skull,
And remembered in your oldest scars.

Once, I heard the learnéd say,
Seasons come, but spices fade,
Children yearn, but young men pray,
So pass the cup, and drink of it,
Let nature grow inside yourself,
And when it’s ripe, touch blood to mouth.

Friends have left me cold and grey,
The sound of sex, the mess we’re in,
I have shared so much it hurts,
Yet nothing but life is spent in death,
And you can always save too much.

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed