Ripping good whisky burns the soul,
Shutters the consciousness on the whole,
Loving the escape, yes escape is our press
And press we do, into the mystic blue
Seeking something lost in the hazed hue
Of reality, too bright, too loud to guess
What it was that we discovered in one brief
Moment of lucidity, condensed in some grief,
Perhaps, or loss, or an ecstatic hot mess.
Knowing the willingness to forego preference,
And leap instead to pool of willful deference,
Swimming with sharks below the feet we guess
But only in passing, as we tread the dark depths,
Naked and alive,free of mis-steps
Brought on by the slow, dulling of our confess
That we are not the purveyors of wit and of wisdom,
And the world filters poorly our own lucid prisms,
No, we hold only to lover and whisky’s soft caress.
Read if you must and lose your own consciousness,
In the doing, drown your own demons in precious
Escape, yes! Flow, flow! No one can such regress.