Drinking darkness in small sips (Marcella Boccia)

I drink the darkness in small sips,savored like wine from a shattered glass,its bitter taste a quiet kissupon the lips of a haunted past.The moon bleeds a pale, tired light,casting shadows that twist and crawl,whispering secrets to the night,secrets I cannot recall.In the hollow of my chest,a storm brews, silent and fierce,I cradle my soul in its unrest,swallowing sorrow with every tear.I drink the night, like I drink my rage,slowly, savoring each drop of pain,as if to taste the poison’s wageand find some comfort in the strain.The world is a blur of fading stars,a canvas smeared with ash and grief,and I, a wanderer behind the barsof my own mind, searching for relief.But I drink, for in the dark,I am not afraid to feel the weight,to taste the poison, bite the bark,of this heavy world, this broken fate.Drinking darkness in small sips—I find my solace in the sting,as each swallow burns my lips,and yet I ask for one more drink.