Songs of the sober

The sober sing in alto,

hymns of judgement in perfect pitch,

chanting down the drunkard

as if being broken publicly

is a crime,

and suffering quietly

is a virtue.

 

They sip their fizzy drinks with pride,

carbonated lies fizzing up their egos-

as if sugar doesn't kill too.

Death doesn't care

if you came through whiskey

or a beverage.

It still waits with open arms

for the slow and the fast alike.

 

Drunkards-

a shunned race,

a people without borders,

exiled not for where they are from,

but for how they try to cope.

 

Sober minds call them weak,

yet lean on them when they need

a mirror,

a story,

a villain to make their virtue shine

brighter.

They twist the bottle in their hand

into a weapon-

not for harm,

but for proof that their way

is the only way.

Their opinions preached like gospel,

dressed up as facts,

when all they have done

is choose a cleaner-looking poison.

 

Addiction is not a moral stain.

It is not a character flaw.

It is TB of the spirit,

hypertension of the soul,

diabetes of the will.

A sickness like any other-

unseen, but real.

 

And yet, the drunkard becomes a

myth,

a warning,

a parable.

Not a person.