He throws a shot to clear his head
Full of clear liquid quickly fed
Down his throat to process the process-less
It burns his belly like fire flames
Churning up his spine and through his veins.
It lingers like paresthesia with purpose,
To some a gift but, to the frequent goer,
They say it curses.

He takes two more down,
Each time the glass makes an empty sound
As it hits the tabletop, his vision drops,
The blurs turn words slurred
Until it's loud talking but nothing heard.
Until it's no thoughts, nothing heard.
That's what he's searching.

About eight deep, he calls it a night.
His mind turned off all the lights.
Staggering to bed in drunken bliss,
No pain from a life path missed,
Nothing gained and nothing wished,
That's his last slur barely said
As he crashes into bed.