The staggered steps
Of the dying drunkard
Have burnt pathways
In hard ground
Leading from
A sober moment
To another glass
Without a sound.
He dwells within
A different world
Each day is taken
In exchange
For a shaking hand
That buys a bottle
To eliminate
Past pain.
His steps are short
A shuffling kind
As he sways
But does not fall
Hes forgotten what
He once was
As that liquid
It does call.