Not sure about the title. This may be really cliche, I dunno...

Distilled into clarity,
seasoned with time and conditions:
a view of when I didn't drink.

Sour sights, stray visions:
they wander back to me, shivering,
on shorter, warmer nights.

I was just such a goddamn idiot.

You weren't one of a kind by any means,
I said;
I'll run into someone better,
I thought;
and I never knew they'd all seem so dull, now,
and that this would all taste so bitter
going down.
We're only strays.
Last edited by Martyr's Prayer at Jan 9, 2012,