What matters it?
A sunken heart will breach the surface,
given time; rise up from the deep
like some whale ghost,
burst free from the ocean’s wine.
And those dying embers,
shovelled deep inside your chest,
will come alive again; burn off
the pain of yesterday, reach fanning,
flaming outward,
set the world ablaze.
And that drunkard there,
inside your holding cell of bone,
is only due a caution;
they’ll more than likely drop him home.
Look now, what matters it?
Commit the pleasure,
stands to reason
you have to do the pain.
And anyway, it will all seem like a dream,
come New Year’s Day.