First draft of a poem

a drunkards cry

from the house downstairs.

a bellow, a wail -

a sound one makes

when demons prevail.

the moonlight is yellow

the shadows are scared.

he reaches for his glass

whispering:

"let this pass -

please -

let this pass"

but night brings strange

bedfellows,

the most unforgiving.

memories of moments

uncaptured

now lost.

a grown man,

an orphan,

with strange child-like eyes -

he stares into his glass

breathing heavy sighs.

an abyss, a void,

an endless eclipse,

"let this pass"

he mutters

as he sits

and he sips.