The Signal Decays
—a poem where static speaks and clarity slips

It started sharp, a Morse-code beat,
A whisper pulsed beneath the seat.
But every hour blurred the sound,
Till sense and noise could not be found.

A stir of Scotch, precise and slow,
With Chartreuse green like afterglow.
An absinthe dash—just one, no more—
To tune the mind to myth and war.

The glass was cold, the line was faint,
Your thoughts turned hues the saints would paint.
No words came clear, no truths held fast—
Just echoes from a signal past.

You drank. You waited. Airwaves whined.
The static climbed into your spine.
And all that once was sharp and bright
Fell softly into fractured night.

📜 The Signal Decays – The Recipe

Instructions:
Stir gently over cracked ice as if tuning a dying transmission.
Strain into a chilled coupe.
No garnish—only the hum remains.

Best enjoyed with headphones on, antenna raised, and no hope of reply.