Turn the volume to its peak.
Shut the doors, seal the windows,
step into the living room.
The bass hammers my walls,
trying to break the door,
while my mind intercepts stray signals,
waves wandering in space.
I sit on the couch,
floating in the clouds,
exhaling smoke.
The bottle stares at me
with her longing eyes.
She whispers: “Take a sip,
lock your sobriety
in heaven’s vault.”
I listen.
My mother’s voice drifts in the distance,
distorted,
carried by a wind—still..
She calls—
but she is not there.
A dragon circles overhead.
It is not there.
Nocturnal beasts march through my ears,
retreating and attacking in the same breath:
confused, as I am.
The vodka agrees:
“Yes, your highness.”
This is my ascent
up the hill of melancholic blues.
My blurred vision paints
vivid, vibrant hues.
I am not coming back.
You are not coming back? Abeg o