A Drink

I’ll drink tonight for one last time,

to the shameless mistakes

and the whores and their price

to the violins and the trumpets

that bear no longer sounds

and the timelessness ruling

words of pain and of loss

and to all those goodbyes

that were proper and just

and yet felt more like a silence

imposed by a ruthless companion

that we need call our fate

but is, in truth, just ourself

who keeps splitting our souls

into halves and in pieces

and proceeds to hide them

beneath masks that seem fearless

and complete, brave and whole

or wise, pure and the like,

but upon fixed stares they reveal

cracks and flaws, stories untold

of dreams lost, dreams acquired

and dreams forced to forget

in tomorrows that approach

sooner than we ever expected

and a past that glows brilliantly

behind us, shunning the future

and immerses every effort

in a lake called despair

until a new, yet doomed, cycle

turns our heads to directions

previously seen, but dismissed

and for a moment, perhaps longer

we may hope for a change

of existence and of mind

but above all we may hope

to forget how much

we miss it all.