These Hands

My breath stinks from my early-morning whiskey.

It’s still fermenting inside of me.

Bubbles of sick - let’s take a ride.

My throat a fairground for my stomach acid.

Night after night.

I slam them back.

All in the hopes it will all fade to black.

Broken shards of glass.

The perfect personification of my struggles.

Art is abstract so are my perspectives.

Fragments fracture me, through the division I see unity.

Through the fallacy of competition and individualism you can see we are mutually interdependent, the enemy fuels the enemy whilst starving their allies.

A better you is a better me.

A better me is a better you.

A better us a better them.

A better them a better us.

Where’s the line between us and them, I’ve still yet to find it.

So, I bet on red because I feel I am correct.

I bet on us all co-existing, interplanetary success.

The architect of my exploration.

Was the architect of my expiration.

The mirror held the answer.

So it would only glance at me.

Upon entry and exit of the room.

I was a stranger.

Strange, deranged, failing to see my change.

I stumbled across the answer to the question that had been plaguing my brain. Such an immense amount of pain.

Who was the architect?

I look down at my blood soaked hands.

That is when the answer was found.

These hands of mine are the hands of the architect.