Intoxicated Bliss

Intoxicated, your prison is a bottle
you hold in your hand. The waters
of redemption, they are not. The
bottle can cut you up when broken.

Cradle it as gently as you like. In
the morning your woes will still
be waiting. Whether Winter or Spring,
Summer or Fall, that prison of

intoxicated bliss will be your abyss.
Fill your mouths with amber or light,
dark or green ale, for hours on end,
the prison will be open its doors

for you. The voices in your head,
the bells that you hear, they are
echoes from the cradle to the grave.
Voices and bells, death’s prison awaits.