That time was dark
A world of silhouettes, cigarette smoke,
A place where light faltered,
Intimidated, burdened
With the smell of whiskey,

The taste of luxurious defeat
Swilled like fine wine gone sour.
The wind blows tough at night
When only fear lights the hollows
Of something like despair.

So here we are, the last of us,
Swizzle-eyed and weary,
Surviving escapees from
What can only be recalled dimly.

I look in the mirror and ask,
Was that really you?