He purchased a bottle of whiskey
then he drank it all in one sitting;
in the hope it would lead
to a composition of some significance.
Alas, it left him with a bloodshot roadmap
of the many out of touch places he’d been.
The trafficking of illicit adjectives and clichéd phrases
left him owing more in tolls than he had collected
and with his fuel tank on empty and his mind full
he gave the freshly greased cylinder of the loaded gun
one final fatal spin…. and then the cold trigger a pull...
As the thought of how this story should end
popped like a cap in his brain…
2008 © T Sheridan
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
certain things like alcohol, can steal one's brain. my mind tells me to do alcoholic/bi-polar poetry. which is my uniqueness. no available alternative ending there.