Old Poets

The old poets sit drinking and conversing. Speaking with long words; parts of forgotten phrases, and occasional cursing. There was among them another day, when they thought they knew precisely what to say, what to do. But time, with the help of wine has taken up the words. Stealing their once steady voice no longer the stronger, nor even again to be heard. Now, the old poets gather round early in narrow dusty bars, looking far off, and puffing fat cigars. Satisfied to simply sit and sip, upon the failing wine, and fleeting time. Watching, as both run dangerously low, like the finish of a long and melancholy picture show. Time and wine, words and birds, all fly so quickly by. Going south with a closed mouth the verbs and nouns of the past fall broken, and are no longer sacramentally spoken. What once moved so fine, within these aged poetic minds flows now, no less, throughout each new day. It turns old bodies weak, yet goes on bearing the delicate souls like gold, further and further away.