Buzzed

A mirror shaped like an hourglass bleeds

Into a phantom, filled with angst and with longing.

Nothing else comes close,

The feelings of rightful skin against mine,

Tender feelings, tender emotions, tenderness.

Nostalgia feeds nothing more than sentiment,

With the present hinting at nothing more than what could be,

The future is nothing more than a drunken haze,

Yet is clearer than lucid dreams, nay, waking reality itself.

Combinations of music, of melody and of essence filter through,

Leaving nothing but dregs, half-forgotten in time and in tune,

With the essence of what they meant more important than the words used

To encapsulate such moments in the transient,

Hollow phrasing as befits us mortals.

A glimpse of infinity awaits anyone brave enough to reach out,

The hand of fate resting on the heart of existence, with

Time as but a card, dealt to an unwitting player in the game

Of lies, deceit, of truth, and love.

The heart quivers, the soul trembles,

The mind shakes, the self shatters

And all that’s left are fragmented pieces of what

One used to be, but is not any more,

Shades of a reality once past, but not one that exists

Any more.