Absinthe of Time

 I am haunted by Demons

foul-smelling,

they come to me,

drenched in oak-barrel dreams

and bourbon promises.

They whisper my fails

in vapors of rum,

and call me to join them

as we fall

all the way down.

But the floor has no bottom.

The absinthe of Time knows no cushion.

Peaks and valleys 

become mountains and canyons

and a corkscrew becomes my only relief.