I've never been a big fan of poetry; however, it often happens that if I'm up late writing something I start to get a dangerous melancholy nostalgia and vague musings violently sprout forth. Such was the case last month when I wrote this little gem about the day's events.
I woke up in a strangers bed twice as tired as before.
The wind licked my face and rushing rivers ushered me toward.
I filled my cup to running o'er, flipped and filled again.
I snapped, laughed, danced about, and silent took the bends.
The air was lemon fresh while I stuck with running beads.
Midst bare walls and empty floors I dined a fruitful feast.
Skeletons and ghosts wore sweats above and foam below.
I turned away and waved goodbye to face and say hello.
Fresh faces even fresher still sang lullabies of black and white.
I killed and saved while werewolves roamed, and witches watched the night.
Sat again near sandy windswept beaches, thought of you and wished.
Lost faith and found my sanctuary adorned with flashing mist.
Tossed and turned but lying still, I calmly went to sleep.