run on drunk

The poor lost cliche souls of a dilapidated tavern run on in a syllabic manner of given silence within the right notes not being played from pains of loss and having either goodness or mere acceptance for defeat on a field of giving up all that is not concerning a cloud of forgetfulness to forgo what could be erased as if the actions of a king says who's next to wallow away from a bar stool or simply lose their head faster than a warning can beckon failure towards an apathetic creature who's hell bent on being human in a way that is not just tragic but stumbling home to make no sense at all.

Poem and Painting by: m.e.l.