He was once a statuesque figure
embodying the essence of what pride was defined as,
my father worked with numbers all day
quick witted, logic was his forte.
However, one dreadful morning, his paperwork became substituted
with a sinful nectar, corrupting his soul.
He didn’t leave in the morning for work anymore
I never asked why.
Dad and mom were arguing a lot more,
no more dinners at the table,
sometimes no dinner at all.
Mom always crying, dad stuck in his favorite velvet chair.
He always did love that chair,
velvet lining, luminating a vibrant red that stung one’s eyes,
it made him happy, but so did his drinking,
a bottle of scotch and that chair became him new home,
bottle after bottle, mom never stopped crying,
I never knew one’s eyes could bear such burdens,
Once I heard dad say that mom’s spending cost him his job,
then she yelled, and I heard a smack,
the rest of the night was quiet,
mom’s eye was puffy.
The slow decline of our family
Decended into a hellish abyss
comprable to a fiery chasm from the mind of Allegeri’s inferno,
marked by a bottle of scotch and red chair.
A day marked by darkness began
I step into my father’s study,
He sat upon a fool’s throne,
Scotch in hand,
A note from mom lay upon the floor
With one word.
Bye.
My dad cried,
A king shamed on his throne,
But the bottle glistened with a devilish smile
Mocking the integrity of man.
I fall
I cry
I look once more at my once proud father,
Now at the pinnacle of his demise.