Too late my friend , too late.

Deep, dark, melancholic

The musings of an alcoholic

Some in rhyme

Some in verse

None that matter much at all

Thoughts that live inside his head

Filled with fear, with hope, with dread

In his heart

And in his soul

Not worth a look or listen

Late at night he lifts his pen

It's time to find the words again

That let him speak

Of darker things

The monster stirs inside

We know that he will toil in vain

Imprisoned deep within his pain

A whisky bottle

By his side

Will blur the edges nicely

Before the early sun will rise

He shuts his tired, rheumy eyes

And hopes that

In the morning light

His words, might just, pass muster

A restless hour, or two, of sleep

No need for rest to settle deep

Too far in

He won't get out

He knows the devil's watching

And sure enough, he lifts his his pad

A little good, a little bad

He smiles his smile

To face the truth

Another wasted evening

Later on the bottle calls

It isn't long before he falls

A cork released

A tear to match

A trembling hand to settle

Still searching for his one fine poem

Before the final journey home

Another glass

Of inspiration

Too late, my friend, too late.