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The Last Sip
April 14, 2013
Death touched his lips
As he took the final sip.
Depressing, to be honest,
His life spent in darkness.
Empty beer cans, wine glass on the floor.
I wonder how it had felt
When he felt himself tilt.
Was he smiling, hoping
For death to come creeping?
He way laying there, slumped at the door.
Poor and lonely, but still had the money
To feed his addiction that left the bottles empty.
Was he crying at the very thought
That his life was pathetic, that it was gone?
His blank stare gave away his core.
© Anonymous
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