He counts his days with scrutiny,
a tedious sort of precision
that always leaves him somehow
empty.
7 days since his last drink,
that makes a week,
but there’s something in the air tonight.
A sort of whispering,
a reminder
that there’s really no chance at all.
He cracks the seal
and feels the world sink like a book in a lake.
The lines become blurred,
the pages turn to mush,
and the messages of God are gone.
He finds himself staring at the ceiling
observing the curious cracks that crisscross the barrier between his bed and eternity.
They spread like veins
and they drip when it rains.
He always gets wet when it rains,
there’s no avoiding it.
There’s really no chance at all.
Comments
Although the tone of this piece is dark, with a decidedly bleak ending, I always appreciate poetry and prose written from the perspective of someone at a particular breaking point or crossroads. Sometimes things do get worse before they get better, and (but) sometimes, too, shame and/or resignation can be powerful forms of inspiration. I felt the misery of your character as I read (especially having family members who've dealt with alcohol dependency), and in turn, internally commiserated.
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