There is a distillery in our brains
Its cane and malt, its hops and grains
Are the stuff our lives are made of.
Blizzard and snow, bush fires or drought
Matches won by penalty shoot-out
Fortunes lost at toss of a coin
Over these and their likes, you are no doyen.
The fuel for this distillery?
Your emotions. Willy-nilly
You stoke the fires as you vent your spleen.
And another dram drip into the vat –unseen
The master brewer is not the stars
Not yet the gods. He is you, your very self.
The final brew has no choice. It must be
Bitter bile or sweet honey. But you can choose
The magic potion, which can vouchsafe the taste:
Your intentions, your memories and your reactions.