Pa Worley's Pub

As much a place of desperation I ever lay eyes on.

Pa Worley’s Pub

 

Shadow to shadow in darkest midnight.

Lost in a comfortable dram.

Mysteries of the soul,

To be found in the indifference of man.

 

A gateway to the nature of all seasons.

A red fall that does not intend,

Blind summers,

And a winter that will never end.

 

Inside thin layers of oak and brick,

There lay the restlessness of men without souls.

Without family, without homes.

To drink the barrel until there are no more holes.

 

A man in the navy with a broken mind. 

A man with no eyes that no one will heal.

A man with wooden arms.

A man with a heart of steel.

 

A whiskey sour is thrown to the stars.

Humanity will take it to kill the fire.

To fill its dying name.

To dream of souls that don’t tire.

 

A man who rode the rail and now rides the bus.

A man who had wings but now they are broken.

A man who wrote dreams that now are buried. 

A man who loved words that now is soft spoken. 

 

Joy of good humor was Hermes’ last gift.

It helped Roland die when he just couldn’t bleed.

It held to Patroclus when his youth diminished.

It would save Judas’ soul to spite his selfish deed.

 

A wolf that kills sheep in the name of its creator.

A black horse that’s beaten on its way to be slaughtered.

A tree that whips the earth that it sits on.

A shining rainbow that’s left to become martyred.

 

Such is the apathy that cures the man,

As he drowns his mind in the ethanol shadow.

To die now would mean all is forsaken.

To live now would mean to see what it’s like to live low.

 

A man under the big top who parodies his own life.

A man who loved his wife and now covets another.

A man who betrays his friends now betrays his country.

A man who hates his enemies will kill his own brother. 

 

The mothers of the human kind may offer no more love.

Love will hurt them blindly unless they find their way.

To forget about the world that knows them,

Is to forget about the divinity that will lead them to their greatest day.

 

Inside the thin layers of oak and brick,

There lay the restlessness of men without souls.

Without family, without homes.

To drink the barrel until there are no more holes.

Author's Note

Take some time for a review if you're ever stopping by. I don't bite.