From the hull of ships
That could carry lake-fulls of rum
To an inwardly shrunk decanter
I’ve become
Not much liquor in my breath
Nor the stench of haphazardly formed texts
Perishing in the stampede
In the labyrinthine tunnel of expression
From thought to word to throat
Led astray by worldly distractions
But more importantly
Derailed by the inner haunting carnivals
At every junction
How, how do I go from being a brewery to a town
Functioning on an untimely schedule
I’m a clockwork town
Streetlamps lit with proses
Shadows cast by spectres of words lost
Either at the sword-point of flowing nibs
Or dispersed throughout the universe
Unfurling with exhaling breaths