Princess of the Wastelands

I can hear her now
from across the room:

the princess, with doe eyes

she believes she lives here
this is her living room,
and these are her people

a party
her party, perhaps
and she’s doing her duty, entertaining guests

until the music dies

and the curtain falls

BSB

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the noble bar-bound

blessed are
the folk of the bar
who never settle for
table and chair
who refuse to seal themselves
away from the warm center
from which all happiness sprouts
we, the blessed few
the chosen ones
who sit face to face with
the object of our desire
the reality of our station
no fools are we, believing
we are simply socializing
no, we are here
to drink from the well
to replenish and envigorate
to feed our stomachs
and our spirits
with spirits
and ales
and tales from souls
we are here to search
for something more
greater than this
this outwardly depressing lot
we are here in search
of truth in life, in ourselves
we pity the empty heads
that crowd themselves to booths
enclosing their groups in leather
to bounce loud declarations
of worth, of pride, of material gain
against one another
hoping for a moment of human connection
pity is due, truly, for theses social shells
and their fruitless game
we raise a glass to them
and wish them well
hoping they keep it down
while we, the blessed
the bar bound
who hide from nothing
and fear no one
craving not but what we came for
demanding nothing but more