The keys jangle against the lock
He is home from work.
Tonight it was only 8 minutes.
8 minutes from door open
To tipping back the bottle,
That is a new record time.
Things are getting worse
And I am afraid –
afraid of the past
afraid it can be worse
afraid he will die too…
8 minutes has to stop
Or I will self-destruct.
I have to stop –
timing
counting
watching
waiting…
Something has to give
And right now I fear
It is going to be me.
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Fabulous poem about a very difficult topic. You can feel the weight of the passing minutes.
Thank you Sumyanna!
Great lines. Loved it.
Glad you enjoyed it!
Absolutely.