Jugs Of Brews

Jugs of Brews
and going throughs,
and lofty bits of time,
and solitude is mine.
Misbegotten pieces,
the emptiness increases,
the hurt comes tearing through
and my heart's been ripped in two.

The Jugs of Wine,
the friends of mine.
I'm lost in warmth of them.
It happens now and then,

But, I ask you is it real,
this feeling that I feel?
This believing here inside,
is it something meant to hide?

Jugs of Brews
and going throughs,
And the reaching that I've done,
Have I failed all and everyone?

My empty tries,
my poetry all lies,
is it in the Manor Small,
Or the Manor Matter After All?
Yet, I cannot drink the Drunkard's Brew,
I cannot yield me unto you.
Comfortable and warm and done,
I cannot believe my believing's done.
Twisting in the turmoil,
the truth I seek will boil -
in blackened pots of uncertainty,
the volcano within the depths of me.
My temper, my control, my sanity
are all a part of me,
along with my lofty thoughts and dreams,
the laughter and the anguished screams.
A fragment of the wind
that stumbles along blind,
And swims in warmth of you
and the hell I'm going through,
And who will ever know,
I never told them so.
And this is what I'm after,
answers to its laughter.
I want to Know, I want to Know.
I want the Truth, to tell me so.
I want to Find, I want to Find,
And I look to these friends of mine.

September 23, 1973
By Linda A. Copp ©