Addiction's Grip

The glass half full, with the first off in the belly The bottles cried, but the man was merry, Staggering and wasted, clueless and drunk Tipsier with each sip, on his chair he sank. The sagacity of jargons, flowing word by word Like a merry go around, his mind coiled unnoticed, The pleasure at it's peak, the inner pain released Without a flaw, he let it poured. The liquor still alive, tempting yet carefree Will it blend or break, or be constant and save?, A sip was enough, but the pleasure is far from a cup And it went on and on, till he was as good as dead. With the ticking of the clock the, the daylight on his face As though nothing happened, the woe was short forgotten, Slowly, his memory retained, with the attitude of yesterday Vowing to stop at once, but the cycle repeats anyway. © Olukorede Jumoke