Memoirs of a Monk II - Sacred Witness

Break bread of broken tablet then sprinkle dust from the timeworn trunk into my last glass of wine. Loud nothings won't drift since my mouth is shut- golden words lost its luster. A heedless monk tends to his morning hangover- letting liquor drip from the divine tap. Meaning has become liquescent- its secrets drain into the gutter. Some still lead the occult worship, their voices only whispers, a riddle which no longer has an answer. My companion has sacrificed pages from the good book, to roll our herbal medication- cures the headache. The whores mirror reflects nothing- we were deluded into thinking we had a face- used its broken glass to pluck our non compos mentis eye from its socket. It exists now as an olive, in my martini glass- grapes eaten lambs blood depleted- we now toast the miserable end of salvation, amen. Have we become piteous punks? No, just silent observers; a witness to moments repeated.