His old hands shake as
his resolve crumbles like a
rotting foundation beneath him

His bloodshot eyes stare
in morbid fascination at the
glass that is set before him

Grey smoke from a stale
cigarette mixes with
his already acrid breath

The inner struggle to resist
the call of his false prophet
continues and never ends

Like the inexorable pull that
drags youth toward old age
with promises of wisdom and wealth

Where he found out only lies
and pain can ever possibly
promise the wisdom he sought

And finally his will erodes
like the sand on a beach
beneath the breaking sea

And as his yellowed fingers
raise the glass to nicotine
stained lips, his reddened
eyes close in a communion
of agony and rapture to
sip of his false prophet.