Hope Found

Again self-infliction runs its course,
Next-day vomiting and whiskey smelling pores.
So far down, he thinks he’s moving up,
It’s the way he throws his head back and tilts the cup.
Ambling naked from the bed, there has to be more,
The last chance, behind the hall closet door.
Reflective silence then gives way to sound,
Dry sobs, an empty bottle, and hope is found.