The Whisky Drinkers

Fill me a fill, my sweet, so that I might
Bask in eternity’s fiery golden haze.
The glittering path is always in sight
But cut crystal can refract in strange ways.

Beware of caustic burning down the back
Of one’s throat, that which seems to somehow hold
Your heartbeat still, until it thumps on track
Again and what you hold is just fool’s gold.

A fool with a molten stomach and still
Half the bottle to go. Drank in anger
It matches your mien and won’t make you ill;
It preserves, and soothes, your mood in amber.

But most people are not fossils to be
Viewed in museums and cultivate dust.
Hence the gift of drink: it allows us to see
Each other as better souls – obscures the rust.