I’m doing this thing where I drink NyQuil and write “poems,” a term I should really use lightly here. This will help me accomplish two things:
1) My insomnia is dying and I’m feeling tired. Too tired, even. I should be asleep now, but I’m pulling through just to write this for you.
2) I lost what the second part was going to be, but it’s OK. I think you get the gist. I do, so you should too. You’re not the one who’s doped up on NyQuil. That’s me. I am. Because of my insomnia. Sorry, I’m done.
This poem doesn’t have a title, but you understand where I’m coming from. Here it goes.
Bitter ol’ Green Eyes
Atop the Cotton Mountain
Hurling dark horses
Aiming right for the head
At the Necromancer’s lair
They charge through the gate
In hopes of feeling death
Gold dragons take flight
A new forecast of fire rain
The heat of creature’s breath
Men wait in shadow
Under the Silk Blanket Way
A wire around their necks
Liquid, oh liquid
Down the black rapids we go
Down to the top of Cotton Mountain
Alone with bitter ol’ Green Eyes
Stay tuned for more On the Tail of a Q. That’s what I’m calling these things. Isn’t it fun? I think so.
Maybe I’ll write more poetry right when I wake up, see how that goes for a while.