Proof

Night-whiskey-projector5933

Hold that smile,
hold the pose
in these weird days
that hold our breath the most:
awkward posture, selfish guises,
bulging eyes strung out on technology.
With our free hand
we raise a glass to future’s past
toasting
the ghosts that couldn’t
make it.

Downed in one
tenuous gulp
makes cheers last longer,
to smooth over doubts and fears
as froth dribbles down the chins
and glasses
set to rest on crisp
white linen’s
cracked sneer –
all aimed at the ghosts
who fake it.

Toasts drown
out the background noise
of irony
as we drink to our health;
it’s part of the game –
we drink to drown our sorrows.
Intoxication is such
that we need it so much.
In limbo we stand bereft
and shaking;
all acceptable,
and very appealing
since life can be unbearable
with little consolation
in healing.
We drink by ourselves
and ogle ourselves
in full fascination
of ourselves –
the future ghosts
that won’t make it.

Cast adrift among
the bubbles –
we are remote and detached
in its liquid
arms to brew animosity
and anonymity –
cast adrift only a short time
before we collide
and we burst; spewed out
but still trapped inside,
we become the toasts
oblivious to the ghosts
who can’t take it