Within the amber lamplight,
Strange faces pass in a blur.
He stumbles into the night
And talks alone with a slur.

Choosing to run through her life,
The bottle masks discontent.
Yet, there still remains the strife:
Passion now inanimate.

Under the gloom of the moon,
The drink did not slay the pain.
As the clock ticked the night's noon,
His angst she did not contain.

In his soliloquy's rage,
A fool's lament finds no fruit.
If he could just turn the page,
Life would arise from the soot.

His locks are his to open,
Yet, he chooses to remain.
She beckons from where I've been,
But, I turn in my refrain.