a poem where meaning fizzes and hope gets kicked

The copper cup was cold. So what?
The lime was sharp. It made the cut.
The vodka blank, no taste, no past,
Just liquid proof that nothing lasts.

Ginger sparked like distant rage,
A fizzing truth too small to cage.
The ice just sat, a slow decay,
As if it knew it too would pay.

No garnish smiled, no straw was set.
Just one last sip, and one regret.
You drank, and felt the void kick in,
A quiet shrug beneath the skin.

And still, you raised that gleaming tin,
To empty gods and tonic sin.
A toast to what will not endure…
And one more round. To less. To pure.

📜 Nihilist’s Mule – The Recipe

Instructions:
Build in a copper mule mug over crushed ice.
Stir just enough to feel futile.
Serve cold, like the indifferent universe.

Best consumed while staring into the abyss—or better yet, letting it bartend.