On Any Given Evening

Corridors with wall sized windows are always places of rummage Where copper candlesticks glisten and Wood is polished by dirt particles from strenuous journeys. Everything emits faint smells of Brandy and vermouth - the sweat of great silver haired storytellers. Glasses flood downwards staining tabletops and armchair sides: Musings of grey, wrinkled Gods pondering over 50 year vendettas and century long betrayals. Hardwood floors creak and crack with the footsteps of ghosts: Generals, grandmothers, and cousins in love. Luminous forms of dust reveal nothing and everything, Cycling unto itself over and over again.