Whiskey Steals the Soul

I wrote this and noticed it was never published. I wrote it a year and a half ago. I guess I don’t mind if it’s never read, but it should probably be published either way:

I never read the book behind this poem, it was just an idea that stemmed from an idea of the book. So, if you fail to see the connection, well, it may be because there is no connection:

I remember my father bringing the bottle to his lips
He’d pull a drink and I’d watch the bottle pull a little more of his soul
and I’d watch my father gain what he thought was strength from the bottle
and I’d watch the bottle pull my father’s strength from him and my father grew.

My father grew weaker and weaker at every pull of the bottle
but he couldn’t see what we could see, my brother and I
and he’d pull harder and harder at that bottle, thinking he grew stronger,
and sometimes,
his words were strong and sometimes his hand was strong and sometimes his belt.

I knew though that as long as he felt strong and as long as his hand and his belt grew strong,
he became weak.

After many years my frail father clung to that bottle, with all his might. His hands were weak,
his belt had no power and he clung to that bottle, as if it were the only thing left that could
hold him from falling off the chair, and maybe it was.

I remembered though that time before the bottle became his strength. I remembered the man that could
move mountains. I remembered the man that could shake the earth, as I sit here, with the bottle, trying to let go.

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