The Resistant Cap'n

On the eve of New Year's Eve

I sat a new bottle of spiced rum

on the floor beside my bed.

I'd been calculating the sum

of my non-productive life

and my mind was filled with dread.

It's wearisome, is it not?

The way the soul cries for

compensation, for something

to grasp; anything 'more.'

I was having a crisis of faith;

determined to take a taste of liquid redemption.

Two o'clock spun up

and I was wide asleep;

in that space between sighs

when that gap before you is deep.

Maybe I stopped caring, ceased to think

looking from reddened eyes, listening to lies.

My fingers reached for Cap'n Jack

lifting the bottle from the floor.

Grasping the neck's cap, I applied pressure

twisting it more and more.

For sometime I labored to open the bottle

but it refused to comfort and reassure.

Ultimately, I surrendered my battle with the bottle

and pressed my face into my bed sheet.

The Cap'n is not my friend.

I had forgotten how to stand upon my feet

and trust in those truths I'd professed 

for years, through cold and heat.

I will not attempt to moralize, my dears.

The lesson here is plain.

No man is beyond the struggle.

Every temptation may leave a stain.

But there is no victory over sin just because

the sealed cap, on the bottle remains!