The Drunk

That poor stumbling,
fumbling
mumbling drunk.
That trips on his feet
and broken concrete
and tree trunks.
He didn’t mean to be a downer
but as he walked
and drowned
his sorrows and woes,
he found himself under
a cloud that followed
wherever he went
and wherever he goes.
Life was like quicksand
and the things he loved
were like sand
between his fingertips
no matter how firmly he grasped
he could never gain a firm grip.

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