No Title

Bleak dreams constantly illuminated by the shimmery light of their illusions,

Seeking cheap consolation in the promising face of their delusions that sticks its head out when they light a cigar and pour themselves a drink.

They were always seen in every cheap liquor store in the city asking for a bottle of beer or any other intoxicant that could make them forget all they could make of their sixty-year-old life was no title, unpaid bills, left over hamburgers, a cigar on an ashtray and few pennies left to buy drinks for the next day.

All they could make of their life was nothing.

They always had their dirty but warm loser jacket on, trying to hide from the truth and not the cold, a bottle of alcohol in one hand of course and nothing on the other, just in case a tear drops.

They'd sit, drinking and laughing with men losers just the same age as them, salvaging the moment of temporary forgetfulness while it lasted.

They knew drunkenness was temporary and reality was permanent but were still somehow convinced they could run from it.