The Bar in my Mind

A weary pile of bones sat idly 
between the confines of time and space. 
Staring distantly into the void,
don’t come talk to me when 
I drink. 

Unless you’ve got no concept of time,
or if you speak in a rhyme, 
if your pen lifts off the page or
if you’d rather finish the bottle 
and head home early. 

Two weary piles of bones sat idly
between the confines of time and space. 
The bar was empty, as it always has been,
‘Funny,’ one said, ‘the gin goes right through me.’
‘It’s all water to a writer.’

BIATA

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