seven years spent with a bottle.
his twisting wrist once liberated him
and chug-a-lugs were wings
flapping him up, up, and away…
only he never leapt one damn building
seven years spent with the bottle.
his bloodshot eyes
and busted hopes
are the jailers locking him behind
that imprison him in tears shed
for a love he no longer holds
seven years spent in a bottle
his rotting heart won’t make an eighth
but the bottle knows
that’s just the way it goes….