They Dance With Disillusion

He dances amongst the glasses
Of yellow and green, tequila sunrise
Under the sharp orange hallucination of the room,
Surrounded only by sound and
Fixations of those who want him for all that he offers
Behind the counter that separates him from worlds unknown.

He never drinks, he only observes –
Serving to intoxicate, some might proclaim,
And you secretly wonder if he takes pleasure
In the beings he evokes and anarchists he creates
Through servings only minutes from the last;
Each drop a prelude to the next
As he empties the bottles from the shelves behind him.

You wonder if he knows the secrets
Behind the eyes of all who approach him –
Whether he secretly channels pity towards every soul the liquor claims,
Or justifies it as just another part of the job,
Just another part of alleviating the consummating pain
That clots the mind of those who wish to drown in liquid delusion,
Where love is not lost; only misplaced.

You wonder if he finds pleasure
Through wielding the god-hand that controls the borders
Between this world and the last,
This world and the next,
Like euthanasia inserted through unseeing lips
By a spectator ab extra who preaches vindication without consequence
And smiles when his customers stumble home for the night.

He saunters between the conquests,
Each glass an empty liberation from all that once was,
Or never should be –
And he leaves, indifferent for the rest of the night,
Like the bottles of disillusion on the shelves behind him.