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Whisky

A quick counter-clockwise flick
On the cap of the bottle of Makerís;

Damn thing lands on the floor;

Suppose thatís bound to happen
When youíre already two drinks in,
Generous with the fingersÖ
Four?

But the afternoon has yet
To slink down into evening,
And Iíve not labored nearly enough yet
Over my incessant regrets;

I spin the cap back, and
Watch the ice bobbing on
An amber sea,
Two fingers deep;

The Titanic, and her charges,
Died in glorious, dark and brutal history,

While Iím a mere few inches drowned
In my own exaggerated misery.
tell_me_wy
Written by tell_me_wy
Published
Author's Note
a brief pen
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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