Hold the Sophists Close

March 16, 2011
Alcohol lives behind closed doors
that only you can open.
You pour and pour and drink some more
until that lonely ghost grabs the most
of your words that are slurred like notes.
But they come together to create this
non-sober symphony,
and as you pump your poison,
your mind creates this epiphany
where my eyes have webs.
Your limbs are tangled,
I have you wrangled
I watch your wit writhe as your thoughts thrive
and I’m striving and trying to keep you alive.
It’s not that long of a drive,
just a ride on a weary winding road,
but I’m worried about the liquid cure
that flowed
through yourself not too long ago,
just know
that your drunken dreams
will never be doubted.

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