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Hot Whiskey I used to grasp that warm and heated glass. Full of consistency yet diabolically replete. I groped for its promise of retreat. I gazed fixedly into space, a mental nomad. The lemon was sour, And the sugar so sweet, Garnished with cloves, An aroma I lived and breathed. But it was simply a gauche accessory to grief. Your sour blindsided me, and I had to bid adieu to your sweet. Goodbye gaunt face, Ever pale and senseless To myself and the domino left behind to those who love me. You are grave-like, Beguilingly evil, Yet ever tempting, you Thievery of life. Sometimes I miss you, Baffling as it seems. You nearly killed me, But sometimes I want you back. |
Additional Notes:
I realize that some stanzas rhyme and others don't. The reson for this is two-fold. Had I condemned myself fo poetic rhythmic consistency, the meaning of the work would not be truly revealed. When one is confused, or oblivious, adherence to rules is non-existent.
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