It’s a place despised by many and glorified by few.
It’s a place you drive by every day.
It’s a place you could never imagine stepping a foot into.
It’s the dingy building on the corner of the street in the “bad part of town.”
It’s a grimy but merciful place that reflects the souls within.
And the bar stools inside are occupied by those
tormented with a fierce lust and desire,
overcome by a seizure of thirst
and enslaved by their own timidness.
This is the dive bar.
As you enter, smoke clogs the pores of your skin
and your eyes look upon the joyous misery.
The wonderful establishment is filled with the fringe-of-society folks.
The homeless drunks that could tell you a little something about life,
whose jagged wisdom has been obtained practically,
through the callous reality of living.
The bar is filled with the suffering and the anguished
who remedy their wounds with the bottle.
Its inhabited with the occasional guy
who has broken free from the chains of domesticity
and drowns away his boredom, his discontent.
It’s filled with people numbing the agony
of daily repetition.
And they come far and near for this stimulation
and drink desperately,
yearning to resurrect the spirit within.
They never judge, but are always judged by
Christian eyes and wealthy overlooks.
They are the ones that
society runs from.
Deep within the joint, there’s a whining voice
blaring from the 40-year-old jukebox
that is being cried on by a sun burnt whore.
Her loveless life is empty and her bed is now vacant.
There’s the broken, alcohol induced jargon
spewed from the 68-year-old newly widowed man in the corner,
but he doesn’t mean any harm.
The venomous fangs of desolation
have pierced the souls of all these barroom prophets.
Abomination of shame and guilt run rampant
as with the smell of stale-beer.
These men with elusive principles
never were ones to worship the status quo
or bow down to the tone of society that imprisons everyone.
A ravenous darkness dictates over their ambitions,
so they sit waiting, wishing, and hoping
for the next adventure.
And they wait…
sit and wait,
hoping to die
or waiting to live.
But they wait
and they sit.
how glorious the Dive Bar.