The Thirst Of Heroes
by Vito del Valle
My heroes have always been lunatics.
Madmen who ran through the city streets drunk and naked,
howling at the moon.
Men and women whose poetry and prose moved mountains,
all the while wearing their tortured souls,
on their sleeves.
I find comfort in the words of whores and cowards,
be they fictional or as real as the shimmering moon.
There is a solemn commiseration in a crowded bar.
It's one of the loneliest places on earth and the spot,
where great stories are made.
My heroes have walked into that bar as regular men,
but have walked out kings of...
the unruly,
the forgotten.
Their novels are like a cold case of beer.
Their poems are like a stiff drink.
And me, I'm drunk as hell,
and my thirst can not be quenched.
Off prompt. I felt I had been writing crap last couple days. I needed to do something more for me. Poem #101 for the year.
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