We drinkers like Rodin’s thinkers
Sat perplexing over the bar,
Contemplating what went wrong with our lives-
As if set in stone.
You may think we live the life of Riley
But maintaining this lifestyle’s a chore.
Drinking to recover from the hangover of life,
With the hair of the dog like inclement clouds
Meshing with the odour of stale smoke,
Living life to the full glass-
Which is always half empty.
While we remain all alone
Crowded out by our thoughts,
Going over memories.
Our unsettled sentiments left semi detached
Amongst a terrace of personalities.
Their dislodged expressions beaming upon us,
Causing us to cast a shadow
As if we were a gnomon.
And we’re left hunting that elusive enthusiasm,
Wanting to lift our spirits
While dragging our weight behind us,
Like a cadaver heavily decayed
Over years of treading water-
Our eyes callused with internal tears,
While remaining the freshly slain victim
Of our sense of worth.
Our insecurity a vanity
That’s patently selfish.