Bender
All night
a sleepwalking death
stumbled in and out of his prone body.
He had been drinking again,
whisky fumes rolled around
a dry, thick tongue.
The air in the room
wavered from hot to cold,
feverish self-repeating scenes
of Paganini trilling a fiery violin
haunted his aching brow.
A sledgehammer dawn hit him.
Death withdrew from dulled senses,
yet it lingered like a bloodshot eye,
at the bottom
of a half-full decenter.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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