They say alcohol is a depressant,

On the whole though I must confess,

I prefer the highs of selected bottles,

The finest of wines consumed,

Thereafter the likely pounding head,

The slow recovery; yet recovery still,

Until the waking eye once more can bare,

The rising sun; the world around,

To that of a life in drought; my desert storm,

Days for some reason unbeknownst to self,

Flat and pointless appear always,

A landscape changing,

Much as a fading photo ages,

Over time