in a quiet pause, resenting sleep and
far from dawn
slowly sipping Irish Whiskey.
The little bite on tongue dissolves into flavor
and one savors thoughts
as if tones on palate
slowly sipping ...
Intruding rudely the loud report
of little men once again
making ruin in the jewel- Paris;
Lives spilled, run red on ancient streets
we meet once again the face of loveless life
a banner of carnage, upon the soul of innocence...
I fight back the wells that verge, and
get lost in better possibility, and prayer
for some things make no sense at all, even when
slowly, sipping Irish Whiskey.
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