a poem where the world has ended but the glass is still warm
He stood where once the towers rang,
Now quiet bones where echoes hang.
No god, no flag, no sacred hymn—
Just soot and scotch on every limb.
A match was struck, the glass exhaled,
The peat rose up like truth unveiled.
Islay fire, cold and deep,
A message no one left to keep.
Dry vermouth, a ghostly veil,
Like paper maps in acid hail.
A dash of orange, bitter, bright—
The last good thing before the night.
He raised the glass to no one there,
Just smoke and sky and fractured air.
And in that sip, the signal climbed—
A lost dispatch through scorched-out time.
📜 Smoke Signal from the Ruins – The Recipe
- 2 oz Islay Single Malt Scotch (Laphroaig, Ardbeg, or anything that smells like despair in a hearth)
- ½ oz Dry Vermouth
- 1 dash Orange Bitters
- Garnish: Expressed lemon twist or a scorched rosemary sprig (optional, if hope still flickers)
Instructions:
Stir gently over cracked ice like you’re preserving a fragile code.
Strain into a coupe or heavy rocks glass.
Inhale the smoke. Drink the message.
Best consumed by campfire in collapsed cities, under stars that don’t answer back.