at the end of the road
beneath the sorrow
engraved etched into my soul
I find the meaning
fleeting oh so fleeting
but it was there for a moment's sake
her words reverberated
through the empty bottle
***
I tried to listen
to her drowning voice
with each echo
the original
became fainter
and fainte
faint
fai
n
t
until nothing was left
but the memory
of a drunken moment
in which I could
only fleetingly
remember the sweetness
dripping from her mouth
***
***
in the hollows
of the empty bottle
I search for the last drip
of her sweet voice
dripping with nectar
similar to honey
but all that I am left with
is an empty echo
that fades away
the more I try to remember
the most beautiful of moments
always the fleeting silence
of her voice
always the temptation
to grab at nothing
but the empty bottle neck
***
but I am free
from her shouts
late in the night
from whence the demons come
beholden to the truth
hidden in a bottle
it is now empty
with only a fleeting scent
of her taste
Postscriptum, or The End of the Road
It has been a time since I wrote a poem. If you can consider the above a type of poem, then I have broken the spell again. Maybe I should try to write some poems on Fridays, as then there is some whisky and beer, and the smell of the fleeting truth in the air.
The moment I pour the last bit of whisky is similar to the fleeting voice of a lost lover, the fleeting remembrance of her kiss that stung, but now tastes like honey, but with the more we think about these fleeting moments, the vaguer they get. The more we think about these stolen moments, the more they are drowned next to the million other things. A drop in the ocean. At first, the whisky was strong, but with each droplet of water dripping into the glass, the weaker the original gets.
Alas, such is life. The fleeting cannot be captured. Poets have tried, photographers have tried, artists have tried, and everyone fails because the very nature of the fleeting moment resists every attempt to be captured. Capturing the fleeting would be the ultimate moment, but it ceases to be possible, as with every attempt, the moment is lost. The fleeting wins yet again. Like whisky, each drop of water dilutes the original, even though it becomes more palatable (to some), the original is lost. The fleeting is gone.
The bottle remains empty, and only her lips from which the nectar drips, remain as a vague memory.
I hope that you enjoyed this poem or strings of poems.
For now, happy reading, and keep well.
All of the musings, writings, and poems are my own, albeit inspired by the empty bottle and the many blues songs that also reminisce about the lost loves we have - including the last sip of a good whisky. The photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300.