Loneliness is like Absinthe

Loneliness is like absinthe,
The old potion of poets
Of Paris and its quarters
Only to be captured
In words or paint

Sour as you walk,
Feel these droplets of rain
Harder to swallow
The indomitable taste
When offered
The old pain

And in presence amongst us
Like those wild flowers
Scattered in time,
In an unmarked islands
To witness the old mosaics
Survive you may,
But remains in place,
The old prison

Bounded in its fabrication
As fly in spider’s web
Breathless, in our attempts
An appearance for posterity
Learn you may,
From these experiences of past
But bite it will,
The old venom

In its hazel shades
And in its steppes of moments
A noise, unfiltered,
To forget is to rewind
In the oceans of time
The old reference

Carries it the remains
Of our actions and fortunes
Only to be captured
In words random
Too many efforts,
To remain, out of its claws
The old jungle

But beautiful it is,
Like an old sky
Those old footsteps
Of mankind and its marks
In darkened souls
Of adventure and wisdom
The old light

No prices or offers of ransom
Of its beauty and grandeur
As they drink absinthe
The old potion of poets
In the old Latin quarters
For words and for paint!

Kashkin