I drink Napoleon Brandy (the third).
Contemplate whether i’ve slaked my thirst.
The room begins to glow.
My inside mellows into something less known,
while surrounding space fools me into thinking
it whirls as snow on the edges of storms.
By morning all’s back where it belongs.
I will be born again, but not in the Christian sense.
There will be no uplifting songs.
Wall clock will still separately sound
each passing second and then be gone..