Tales of Old

It has been a whole year

And I have not seen you behind anything but the bottle

We used to hit the town and live life with our feet on the throttle

Friends in the village of spiraling ends

You were my friend in a time when everything seemed to be sliding into a fatal decline

Everything tilted and fitted into a tight body of encapsulated personal regression

Sliding, dripping, dropping, and flopping into a of lancinating state of depression

It seems like every step away from the edge pushes you further towards another ledge

 I am reaching for you shoulder

But every time you turn and give a stare that gets colder

So every attempt to reach out gets bolder-

Yet in the eyes of the beholder you haven’t shifted

And the table of your sanity has tilted

 

Even as we gather around this oak table that we would rather not address

 Your words flow along and profess that my press is nothing but paranoid distress and I should

Stop attempting to apply a psychoanalytical process upon a work in progress

Every time I ask if you can handle your daily pill popping task

You nod, and throw back with your flask

I’m tempted by voices unseen to let you bask

Bask in the amber gold that flows down your throat ever so bold

To let you sink while you swallow that double edged gold

To let you fall into a state of drunken tales of old

To stand back and watch as your hand falls and the reaper calls 

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