Drunk poetry #2

Dropping your guard is a catalytic catapult stretching across the marrow of your stardust eyes
As the serpent begins to taste only itself like a black stain stirring in the warlock’s cauldron
It ages with fine reminiscence through the oak barrels along barren fields and white lies
Gods with office jobs sliding in the clips of cosmic bullets to wither contradictions once sowed
Only to choke on the wicked with last rites tickling the back of their throats