A Mans Fated Garden

Ron Koppelberger

A Mans’ Fated Garden

The bond of perfect happenstance expressed the result of wisdom in degrees of chance. He amended his spirit, the core of his soul with the temperance of everlasting whiskey tumblers and vodka vision. A sober regard for the drink in respite of an eternal drunk. Cool in longing, cold in tastes of sour sweets and worshiping alters of drama, intoxicating, he thought. He was hunted by parched passion and dabbles of bourbon. Distinguished in jiggers of juice and shots that benumb the desolate isolation of being alone.
He drank and drank and drank, sugary spoils rushing in waves of inebriated assurance. Tumblers of rumble and staggering whim. A humble concoction in beds of dew and fall leaves. He slid to the forest floor, whiskey glass in hand. He found himself growing tired and old, soon he was coated in moss and mold, mushrooms and bold stones of marble and ash. The spirit of stone had concealed the man in secret and excess had gone to seed with the flesh of a foregone conclusion. “ be ye aware of the stinging shade of temperance that lies in the soils of a sober harvest.” The man sighed an immediate amen to the sibilant voice that spoke to him. Soon after he returned to the dream of verdant eternities in sylvan wilds and drunken excess, sleeping in quiet fortitude, in serene breaths of nature and the return to mother earth.