Bottles Poem by Ian Hammond

This bottle is salvation, praise the lord,
Hallelujah and my best regards to the Angels,
Tonight I drown in all my thoughts,
Veritably worshipping the bottle, as it drowns my fear.
Sobriety tonight is nothing but a far off dream,
A lover’s ambition, and dreamer’s utopia.
Mister More, I apologize for this gross misuse of the word,
Nothing could be further from the truth,
I know in the deepest caverns of my heart though,
This dream is nothing more than fantasy.
Sometimes the truth stings, sometimes it come easy,
Tonight it burns with the intensity of a flame.
A dull, easy swaying ember drawing me in deeper,
Day after day it feels too real to be true.
Night after night it keeps me awake and restless.
Sleepless nights bring nothing but worries,
Will this be the last chance I have to dream?

I who have felt Prometheus' pain,
Swayed to the tune of the Unfinished Requiem,
The final dream of a decaying soul in writhes of pains,
I who have marched East into the Steppes,
Only to be turned back after reaching Moscow.
I who have felt the heat of Rome burning,
Centuries ago it seems was my time to live.
There is nothing here but bottles.
Nothing to wake up for tomorrow.

Arcadia so distant, sing to me your hymns,
That I may sleep tonight, restless and undisturbed,
As the centuries pass me by, I pray for sleep.
I long for sleep, I crave the night to envelope me.
One more good night as these bottles carry me to slumber.
Hallelujah, oh how I praise this last bottle.
Hallelujah, how I long for rest.