A Terrible Try At Poetry, and a Fuck It Attitude To Go With It

I’m not holding on to anything.

I am grabbing as many straws as I can and throwing them into my fire. I am running out of straws though.

They come from close by but I never remember where I got them from.

They all look the same so there is no reason to remember them.

I let them give me warmth then through more straw onto the dying flame.

Sometimes I use the embers to catch fire to the other, but they eventually both burn out.

Then I am left alone, in the darkness, in the cold.

Until I finally move on, hoping that the next fire I build will last longer, but it doesn’t.

The fires die and I eventually find some shelter in a tavern.

There are no women here, no one knows me and anyone that does, does not know I am here.

The bartender only serves whiskey.

We all drink it slowly, the rest of the cold, dead patrons and I, our glasses never empty.

We don’t talk just grunts and the occasional welcome to the newest member.

I stay for awhile until the whiskey does nothing for me, doesn’t even numb me.

I throw on my thin wool jacket and step outside into the harsh weather.

I find a clearing, sit down and start collecting my straws.