Golden Liquid

The lone empty glass sits cracked and split upon table cloth,
The hot golden liquid of its once proud life dripping and spitting to the ground.
He looks at it with an air of detached confusion,
The empty seat opposite stares accusingly out.
What has happened to him?
Once he could think and feel like a normal man,
But now the gin soaked brain flits and flies with its own free will.

Laughter echoed from the corners and his alcohol haze spat red,
Anger flared at his own incompetence.
The golden liquid calls his name,
Its burning smoking taste slips and spills down his throat.
As it settles in his stomach it fires like the mythical beasts of ages past,
Its roar a spinning of his vision.
He slips.

His hand falls sharply off the glass and it spins across the table,
Its deadly tango ending as it falls off the edge.
Its tinkling smash a signal through the waving image,
Blackness closes slowly from the edges.
The stool slips away from beneath his arse,
His body slipping forwards to crash heavily to the ground.
Another victim of the golden fluid.