Drink, dance, be merry!
They said to me again.
Their eyes beg for my
inclusion, but in her wake,
I am still.

I could drink of their fine wines
and cheap liquors. But their foolish
act betrays the poisonous lie
that sleeps behind the cap
of the false holy water.

I could dance with them, I could
flail like man half my age cannot,
but as they swing and turn the
sorrow in their eyes cannot be
danced away.

I could be merry, forget myself
in joy and false delight; but in
their sweet apples I taste worms
of deceit. Merry men do not
look behind them.

In the wake of passing light,
we drink and we dance and act.
But this inebriated dance and
masks of joy cannot hide the pain
of the honoured lost.