The Alcoholic

Was not of his heart,
Was not of grief,
The cry was made to be deceived,

Consumed in less,
Nothing could stop the momentary,
Solitaire,
It all comes down to this.

What else can you make of such mock fidelity,
Tell your story,
In blotted ink,
Shall we dance to the moonlit dreams?
Forsaken by he who cherished faith,
Disloyal to the heartless graves,
Cans lay disowned on the marble,
Is there time to win the riddle?

Too many years, wasted unlogically,
It's not the matter of death that haunts him,

So he may forget,
But forgive himself, it's impossible,
Was not of his heart,
Was not of grief,
His cry was made to be deceived.