Wine

From the first pour

to the last sober breath of next day,

I clear my way

to write a line

yet to be revealed

The first two share a cigarette,

after the third glass

the wine starts to whisper.

I cry for yesterday

I drink now for tomorrow.

In the silent hours,

I wine and dine my book

sharing my sorrows.

Often so

but not always past the date.

Hazy and run down by light,

I welcome the torture with open arms.

For it is the new day,

and sleep deprivation

cigarettes

and an empty stomach

works wonders.