It did not creep
slowly,
like a spider
after her struggling prey.
More like a fifteen pound bowling ball,
Thundering towards
lazy fat pins
unable to move.
The disease flowed
through shiny silver cans
Dripping with cold sweat
It poured
out of beautifully crafted glass bottles
Liquids of gold,
Burning amber,
And fizzy bubbling blush
Liquid courage,
it shredded our family tree,
into paper confetti.
Scrapbooks full of memories,
no one could remember anyway,
And those who could?
We stayed behind
licking our wounds,
like angry hangovers
on regretful mornings later.
A Hermitess 