Broken mirrors are beautiful in their own poetic way

That familiar mix of booze and starlight
mixing bittersweet in the cool night air,
and here I am to celebrate—

with my offering of powdered dreams,
crushed under the groaning weight
of latticed, structured plans
and forced to play bedrock
to a groundwork grid of years.
A sigh to the breeze to send it up.

Wandering through the old sacrificial altars,
those cracked streets
worn a thousand times by my threadbare tread
and somehow I'm hoofing it again.
Close your eyes, lift your chin to the breeze
and breathe it in. Soft, deep, let it wash you.

Don't worry—for the first time all day
the world can mug your body
but not your thoughts.
It's the usual prayer, to feel alive;
you can't ask for more
and you want nothing less.

Well, fuck—
I've meandered through this ritual so often,
the taste of my dreams gets mixed up nowadays
with the taste of stale beer.