To-- the Drunk Man.
You do not slur-- your words
And your cheeks are-- not red.
Your nose, however, blooms-- like
An apple,
Left too long
On the branch.
You are childlike--
You shed the weights
All are
Heirs to
As you plant
Kisses
On our cheeks
To grow
And flower.
I understand--
I guess--
Your need for
Your drink.
Sour fumes blur-- your sorrows
And the nausea is only
A side effect of an--
Ephemeral ecstasy.
You live-- a living dream
And consequences
Can be faced
Some
Other
Day.
To-- the Drunk Man.
I hope
You find
Happiness-- and
Relief--
Elsewhere,
Instead of inside
Your fragile bottle.