This one, this one, He would drink and drink,
Until he couldn’t think.
I know it may sound sad,
But in a way, I was glad.
When he’d pass out on the couch,
No longer had to listen to him grouch.
His hurt, like a stubborn stain,
A never-ending source of pain.
But each morning as dawn came,
I knew exactly who to blame.
Despite the grief he caused us,
In relief, we’d grimly place our trust.
My siblings, how they hated him,
Unlike me, who still missed him, dim.
I wrote him letters, tried and tried,
To make him better, for him I lied.
Yet it was like speaking to a wall,
In this struggle, I was the only one to fall.
To alleviate my aching pain,
Often, I’d dream of boarding a train.
A dream to run, to flee, to leave,
Just maybe then, he too would grieve.
But I couldn’t, for thus began,
His routine, his repetitive lifespan.
This one, this one, He would drink and drink,
Until he couldn’t think.
