Decanting
November 21st, 2004 | Published in Life
A half-empty glass rests amiably, gently refracting the awful gaze of a dying sun plunging headlong into the depths of a darkened sea splintering its volatile rays into shards of caustic munitions to bombard the sunken skin of a sturdy skeleton grip and exaggerate the amber emptiness staining the smooth hourglass fragility.
A wily grasp is suddenly loosened and hoisted to decant the rigid flow of spirits through pursed lips reeking of cheap cigars and condemnation as an angular clock face depicts the waning of an anonymous evenings indefinability. Stilted pockets of mediocrity shine in full-moon brilliance neath gaping eyes with hollow reflections of the corrosive sieving of accounting sands slighted at an extreme angle to view the smeared black ink splattered across an unfettered horizon with an awkward stare. One single grain of smooth sand slides down the pinched tunnel neck of a shapely timer drifting calmly as a feather fiercely to land atop a towered heap to shake loose its delicate foundations summoning a determined glance from anticipating eyes shuddering in sarcastic relief as the last amber drop breaks and scatters upon a vast, vacant jaw to quench a dying thirst and satisfy a denied desire.
Time is like poison. Once you drink it all, you die.
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