Wobbles

I sit here on this rotating place of rest, my feet firmly planted on the brass rail. My dear friend polishes his chalice as he listens intently to the stories from us all. Tales of trials and tribulations, imparting his knowledge when needed. Here, I spend my days no where else to go. Slowly, I empty my coffers with each mug I finish trying to ease my soul with the tarnished foamy juice. I lose myself in my own thoughts. I soften the pain with its' effects. once my pockets are empty, and my head is full. I puch away and head for the dorr. I wobble down the street to my bed.