In a dimly lit bar, a man still sits.
a low-hanging yellow light hums
as he glares at the hazy glass.

Stares at it violently in futility,
eagerly seeking penance or assurance,
anything,
at the bottom of it.

But amidst its promising golden liquid;
He found no fortune.

Only twisted versions of dreams,
made into a viscous nightmare
tying his life in one vicious sip
until his eyes clouded –
with the fog of a hundred cigarettes,
and he finally moves
making his head meet
the filth-grimed pine floor