It’s easy to make fun of,
in the same way, it was easy
to tell this nation
it would never drink again.
Though, there was always someone
brewing in the dark
away from everything,
so no one sang the name.
Hidden in the garden of the world
the tree leaves held the smoke
against the humid earth
and there was birth behind
the metal of the still.
They had their fill
until the bottles
were possessed by their transparency,
and the concentrated power
of the past was poured
within them to be held
before the headlights
on the hillside.
I guess it’s really
just the opposite
of that.
This is a great poem. I love what you’ve done here and how you’ve gone about with the words and rhymes.
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