the house at the end of the cul-de-sac

a shed full of bottles,

some empty, some sparing

but a drop of umber syrup for a 

thirsty traveler. 


pots and pans had long stacked up

in a rusted sink, stained and riddled with scum.

who lived here? 


the owner was strange. he spoke

a foreign tongue. one that yelled and argued.
his body had endured years of wear and tear.

it contained no more than brittle bones 

and waxy flesh and toxic blood.


it was a monster of no usual kind,

one armed with drinks instead of swords.

but inside that monster 

was a man.


a father, a brother, an uncle.

a man who used to straighten his tie and

kiss his wife goodbye. 

now he only had his bottles to rely on.


a drink to get the day going 

after a night of drinking.

and the days always went

away and away and away. 


This poem is about: 
Our world


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