The Journey Poem by Declan B

Alone, a box of bootlegged wine,
a man and his silver snake.

He opens his eyes blearily, his silver snake
sliding cleanly over his arms

He is accustomed to it but still he winces.
The snake leaving two trails behind, oozing poison.

He raises a dusty bottle to his cracked lips,
he hopes to absolve his memories.

Allow them to fly, there is nothing he desires.
The bottle cedes its last drop.

He closes his eyes, allowing the wine to seep
into his throat, unaware of the poison

trickling down his arms, running like red cross-stich
down his to his broken fingertips and dripping to the floor

His snake lies glinting in the musky sunlight.
Its tongue coated in poison. He pays it but a glance.

He is tired. The man wipes his brow and reaches
into the box. No dusty bottles greet him,

no small cork heads, just space. Emptiness.
He stands up, his chair complaining at his absence.

The empty room, stained grey walls, stripped
bare of pictures or paper, this is his abode.

His chair; his bed and table. He hurles the box,
the rotted planks exploding over the grotty oak boards.

He picks up his silver snake adoringly,
letting it slither over his neck.

Poison rushes out, like water out of a dam.
He thinks, casting his thoughts to the heavens.

I'm Coming