I saw you so consumed by the bottle.
So very much so that like the
Autumn leaves a brown blotched visage became you.
“I hate you!”
I breathed, shouted, prayed.
But, I didn’t want for that dreadful December morn
When from you your last breath went:
“My dear boy…”
All of them – miss, love, wish, regret – rain from me now;
Somewhere, somehow, can you hear them?