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