Moon Hangs Low

Moon hangs low, trees rustle at my window,
Dancing their lazy languid dance with the rhythmic breeze
Of which midnight dreams are sometimes woven.
But not tonight. Tonight’s too tired, tried and teeming
With debris of thoughts long since abandoned
For perhaps a better way.

Constant is the ebb this season,
And no other way to go but south of here,
If indeed you’re searching for whatever it may be
That lingers in your head like dew on a stone
In the pre-dawn hours of normally rainy
March morning calamity.

Candle’s flame flickers, the only movement in the room,
The flickering flame and the shadows it casts on the wall,
All performing Tempest in perfect Shakespearean.
Still I lay with bleary, reddened, tired eyes
And head hung off the bed and motionless, save for periodic blinks,
Though few and far between.

Staring down the barrel of a bourbon-filled glass,
Manipulations of perceptions last for hours
When you lay like this,
With your head off the edge of the bed.
I’ll try again to bear down on my soul
And to extract from it the thickest of my juices.

Don’t know what to do when this old wanderlust creeps
Up from behind, wells up from within, calling you out
Into the night, some accustomed temptation,
Familiar voice of seduction.
How to drown one’s pain? Better yet, can one drift out
Insane, inane, in search of freedom?