It was a rough night;
Remnants of memories flicker in and out
Dancing halfway between reality and dream
Taunting lucid thoughts that have not yet come
To be fully awake.
Sounds ricochete off interior walls
While light fires beams through broken shades
And war drums pound distantly yet instantly inside
While weak knees suddenly give out
Under unstable, strangely sore, legs.
As the calm comes before the storm,
So too does the fun before the fall
And a night of grandeur has been reduced to this;
A battle field where bottle cap land mines litter dark carpets
Waiting for sluggish feet to prick with their Lego sharpness.
A grim, grizzly scene where bodies are discarded
Tossed, limply laying on accent rugs, art prints
And torn gossip magazines that mysteriously
Belong to neighbors somewhere down the street.
It is the punishment for us mortal things
Daring to take part in Bacchus’ revelries
Where we impishly think we can drink the night away
Into a haze of reserved immortal glory
And escape, unscathed, from the theft of what is not ours.
No, instead of triumphantly rising to a day that is ceased,
We find instead our clothes littered around statues, blackened eyes,
Our friends passed out in parking lots and on trampolines
While we still must rise and go forwards, marching ever on
To our own, pathetic inescapable mortal beat.
I tried to capture something as truly dreadful as an actual hangover. Something that sums of the mortality that comes in the morning after the glow of those blissful nights have gone.