Echoes of the Forgotten Tavern

In a life before this one, I brewed my own beer,
A tavern lost to time, in the 1800’s clear.
I served souls marked by the wounds of war,
Men hardened, haunted—seeking more.

The soldiers came, their faces scarred,
Eyes bearing shadows that hit like shards.
I poured them solace, a quiet, fierce brew,
One sip to soften the lives they’d been through.

In the corners, the lost souls sighed,
Pennies clinking in the dusk, where the shadows hide.
Prostitutes drifted, trading hope for bread,
In blood-stained walls where dreams lay dead.

But in each soul, some ember would spark,
A broken beauty lit up the dark.
They painted words in drunken verse,
Stories that blessed, stories that cursed.

Their tales ignited like fire in night,
Hotter than sun, yet hidden from sight.
Here, they gave me poetry, raw and real,
Love and sorrow, the wounds that heal.

In that old tavern, I held their past,
A glass in hand, while memories amassed.
A refuge for the weary, their secrets bared,
In that life long gone, I listened—I cared.

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