Drunken Mirage

 

‘Twas the middle of an icy night, and the wind was cutting fast,

and there he stood, cold and shaking, sipping on his flask.

And then he came across some smoke with embers burning bright.

“Who could it be?”, he said aloud, and gazed into the night.

 

He looked around, startled by the wind’s untimely song.

And afterwards he eyed the ground - The embers now were gone!

With blue and bloodshot open eyes, the man cast a stare.

Had the embers not been burning bright when he had stumbled there?

 

He stepped along, carefully, to the place that once was charred.

Not a single leaf was out of place; not a single rock was scarred.

He fumbled around in his sack until he found his other eyes.

He placed them snug upon his nose and gave his gaze another try.

 

But, alas, as he looked again, not a thing on the ground had changed;

the embers were still absent and his wonder still remained.

And in that moment, he believed, the culprits were his eyes.

that is, until he turned his back and felt the heat of fire.

 

He whirled around, with knife in hand - ready to attack,

for he would surely kill the man who sent fire up his back.

But as he turned around to find the man that he would fight,

he found nothing but an icy breeze and the darkness of the night.

 

“Show yourself!”, he screamed aloud, while he waved his knife around,

and then it traveled up his spine - a petrifying sound.

It was the booming growl of a mighty wolf with beady, blood-red eyes,

and teeth as sharp as sharpened needles; the man would surely die.

 

He stepped away from the nightly beast; the howler of the wood,

and drew an arrow from his back and aimed the best he could.

He then released the bowstring and fired into the air,

and as he did, the eyes blinked twice and then weren’t there.

 

And at this point of confusion and fear, the man began to make a trot,

passing things to and fro that seemed to be there, but obviously not.

He saw gold, women, clothing, and liquor, all scattered about the moonlit land.

Each vanishing into night when he lunged towards them with knife in hand.

 

On and on he traveled on, faster and faster and into the west,

until he reached an image that was quite peculiar from the rest.

“Stop!”, beckoned the angry farmer, holding a silver pistol high,

for the man that dare well trespass on his land would surely die.

 

The man merely smirked because he thought that he had seen enough,

and then he lunged a final time, thinking he would call the bluff.

But alas, with the booming sound of a mighty, mighty blast,

the man drew his final breath and dropped his silver flask.

 

For weeks and weeks the family kept on searching for the man

that wondered through the forest, drunk, with whiskey in his hand.

Reviews

[Penny Ellen]

Very nicely done, creative choices in the rhyming scheme. The line "On and on he traveled on" is a bit redundant, but not awkward.
And, ah....whiskey.... :)

Penny

[Life Inside Death]

all of your poems are well thought out and somewhat theatrical
i wasn't bored once; you kept me into the story the whole way through
great work