He stands in his house that is young than he does <br />His room is miserable like protégé of a teenager, <br />In contrast to his septuagenarian age ring, <br />He hates his house with juvenile energy <br />Not knowing what to do with such hate of loss, <br />In blurred memory of his estranged wife, <br />Not able to discern the current age of his daughter, <br />That had accompanied the distaff on the day of separation, <br />He lulls his nerves to slumber, away from such menace of a thought, <br />By walking slowly to the den of wine, like Mermeldov in hands of Fydor, <br />He sinks down in a chair, plants himself deep into a tumbler of Whisky, <br />The only fortress into which the poor prodigals take refuge, <br />Running away from duty of ethics that spans across life of man, <br />As he wants not memory of his erstwhile risky sex with a punch of whores, <br />From which he condones his exposure to deadly malady, <br />He wants not his memory of overdrawing his account, <br />In faithful service to master wine, against the sub-current <br />Of wisdom that the carouser labours but labours for the brewer, <br />He wants not memory that his moral duty got punctured, <br />And hence self-exile in to slavish duty to wine <br />The only hostage to the whole rounded prodigal.<br /><br />alexander opicho<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wine-s-hostage-to-the-prodigals/
