Brackish

There’s a miasma rising up in the fields of defeat

where stands wisdom and knowledge of hope as it crashed

broken and sour but flavored to taste so wonderfully sweet.

Where the rivers of flair have all run themselves dry,

moments of passion sit in ominous fashion,

Reflecting one last question I dread to ask—why?

Does it all matter or is it all derived from a ghost,

walking down the halls of memory,

playing shadowed film run through with smoke.

If nothing is true and life itself is the lie,

I’d beg for forgiveness,

say I’m sorry for every goodbye.

In those glimpses of purity

that forever I doubted,

lay drinkable water,

though it were horribly clouded.