By Tonny Wandella
I remember, pangs of the aftermath have forced me to…
As if it would be quenched, I dipped my flute in a glass of beaming yellow hues.
Which refracted away its soulful stead; and found it rather hefty and pensive.
It was clogged with honey: the same remedy only bitter.
As it drenched my tongue which bribed my blues to be better.
I picked up the flute and blew a tune,
Oh! Thanks to that hallowed song that was a rumbling hymn.
A toss! To the crumbling tune, a toss! To my tumbling sobriety! I belched.
And the crown of it all: a stagger made it easier for me to dance to my incoherent thoughts,
while I howled my philosophies of freedom.
I picked up the whiskey clogged flute and blew away the tunes of morning birds,
anthems of my true nature and dirges of vanity.
‘Well that is a glaze in your eyes not a sparkle.’ said a voice.
And I, muddled on imaginary ponds tried vainly evading pacing trenches.
My destination, the enigmatic blur hidden in the depth of swirling liquor.
Woe unto him, his woes have baptized him in whiskey and smoke.
Said the stares of my spent conscious and hypocritical strangers.
But I wield it: the glass; sipped it, flinched and spewed all my follies into laughter.
Then nestled my flute and felt it purr in my arms while I fell into the arms of numbness.