The Cynic's Lullaby
I'm early, the tar hosts me as I ease into a paved seat.
The table card reads 'Pedestrians Only'; I conjecture the various looks being thrown my way as a moment of fame, and how the star shall fall against the strict reprimand that awaits its return home, with murky clothes.
I seldom leave my enclosing, but this week has presented me the perfect rendezvous with my beloved. My arms lose a sense of position, pulling down the lazily folded sleeve just in time for a passing breeze. Pardon me, I am not dressed proper.
She stands in the distance; I'm unable to make her face from the orbs that dart across my view. The glasses sit comfortably in my hand, enjoying a fool's struggle. The night hands me a note dipped in water. The words were parched, he explains, roughing me to an inner chamber.
I spot a picture in the cutlery, painted and cut in half. I'm reminded of how I segregate vines and flowers; my sick tyranny was unnoticed until I accepted my defeat. The oil that smudged her initials still serves its sentence in my lyrical prisons. But, I shan't wait any longer.
Valet, fetch my wagon!
I'm aware that she'll envelop me in the fifth minute of my departure; the edges draping my vulnerable limb present their holes, they demand buttons. The ticks coincide with the calls of other horses that defy my direction. There's my watch in the mirror with the anxious fingers and the fair vessel throbbing underneath. She's here.
Now, I'm intoxicated. Ale is my poison, but I've never kissed a drop. I've gambled my peace for this trance; she fills my lungs with a corrosive smog, orange as the ripe fruit. She entices the single manifest of sweat, freezing it at command. I'm sinking, this shortage is gratifying. Trample it, I cheer as I strangle a numb flame within me.
"Before you turn in, let me bleach your eyes,
A bit more at peace than yesterday's cries,
Shivering on the vinyl, seize your frowns,
I'll not come for weeks, take me now."
The cynic falls asleep. At last, can you tell me her name now?