Broken Hope Dreams

Sweat pours

from the heavy

bottomed tumbler,

and the ice cubes

and amber liquid

as shiny

as yesterdays

Sunday shoes.

The whiskey ninjas

flip and fight

in my blood and

brain, killing

the past and all

it's hurts.

Killing good times

and bad, because

the good ones

hurt most of all.

The Arkansas
heat challenges
a fresh drink to
a fist fight,
wearing away
at comfort and
coolness.

In hand

and soul.

A watered down drink

and broken hope dreams,

are all there are some days.