The Man at the Bar
He sits a shadow at the bar's dim light;
a refuge from the storm that rages through his night.
His eyes, like two wells—deep and dark with pain,
reflect the turmoil that his heart can not contain.
His wife—a nagging wind that howls and whines;
a constant reminder of his troubles and declines—
drives him to drink; to drown the din, to numb the ache.
A temporary escape—a fleeting mistake.
Glug, glug, glug—the drink flows down his throat:
a sweet surrender, a moment's peace to cope.
But like a siren's song—it beckons him to stay;
a false solace—a deadly way.
His salary—a ticking time bomb, waits to explode,
eaten away by drinks; his future to be sold.
His heart—a heavy burden, is weighed down by his fears;
a slow descent into darkness—through all his tears.
It's a "well-boiled icicle" of a situation,
Indeed! A "blushing crow" of a problem that he can not heed.
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