The whiskey bottles only
sing like a choir when
I've promised myself I
wont drink.
They only glisten golden
in the dim bar light
when they are out of reach.
They taste sweet and dance
in the mouth of my imagination.
They blossom in my mind
and please me with whispered
promises of salvation.
And I think to myself...
'Whiskey can't talk. It was
you that made them sing.'
John Kipling Lewis
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/golden-6/
