The Bottle Poem by Paul Warren

As the night wore on and on
He never stopped until it was gone
A bottle of bourbon each time
He'd sit down alone at nine

And he opened the bottle to take a lick
Not stopping when the morning would tick
Over at midnight, then finally falling asleep there
Arms folded with his head resting on them without a care

An broken man who didn't recover from his wife's death
Thinking of her was his past time and all that was left
Spending his days in his shack at the Point Lowly beach
That's he died with his empty bottle within his reach.

© Paul Warren Poetry