Uncle

about sick men, the ones who push limits.

Freaky moles burrowing
their infected toenails
in my brain, synchronizing,
hypnotizing. All but my own
consiousness taken over
by rage. What if...
I sliced open the sick
thoughts of an average man?
Maybe I'm a saviour
to myself. But to him
I'm a reasonable excuse
for another bottle.
Rotting in sour,
alcoholic persperation.
Drunken fangs sink
into his past life, draining
the air of any hope.
Of any forgiveness...from me.