Carnaval in Cornfields

Stuck within this prison of
4 beds, 2 baths
where complacency often takes me
to the same ol', same ol' routine.

So it's like I'm 16
again sneaking out windows,
slyly slipping out so swiftly
as if I'm the only one who knows.

Just a brief walk wandering
under latent lunar light shining,
wondering what work of art memories
we'll soon be designing.

Never a need to knock
unlocked door to wide-eyed minds.
Never surprised to find
everyone I was looking for.

Where warm welcoming hugs and hands
pull me deep in quick social sand
toward tenacious tunes and boozed up youths; consuming spirits.
Energy explodes in ecstasy as I go near it.

Air fills with the scent of Schnaaps greeting, meeting Merlot,
mixes swirling storms of charismatically, aromatically spit smoke
exhaled from unveiled lips presently sipping
on devious drinks, leaving inhibitions slipping.

But never regretting
blacked-out nights of forgetting,
when the next day's stories
retell tall-tales of glory.

It's the only way to play imaginable,
the only lifestyle logically understandable.
Like Carnaval in Cornfields,
I reach for life and take a handful.