There's a pub in space where you musn't go
if you like muted lights, intimate private booths
where you could whisper lies, drink
colorful, syrupy potions with little umbrellas to hide
false spirits that can make you high
then drop you like a splat from a bird
who laughs at you as you wipe your eye,
because you think you're so cool.
No, this pub's not for those who seek pleasure,
in superficial, shallow exchange of a one night stand,
or a quick nightcap to bring on sleep,
to dream impossible dreams of nothingness,
to find false peace.
This pub is rough, meant for those so tough
they can endure the pain of others,
as well as clap for the rapture of their joy,
the insanity of their sanity,
the happiness within their sorrow,
the animal within their humanity,
the raw truth in their souls.
OK. Go! If you insist, but be prepared.
Give up everything except the heart you beat.
Allow your eyes to be receptors absorbing
divergent paths you'll cross,
shed all the faces that mask your glow,
get drunk with words,
then pass out or sober up.
Either way it's poetic justice
in this pub in space
where poets, such as you,
like to go.
(Cheers to Dverse Poets Pub!)