In the dim-lit corners of the night,
Where shadows whisper tales untold,
A bottle’s grasp is tight, so tight,
Its promises of warmth unfold.

Yet in the morning’s harsh embrace,
The echoes of its lies are clear,
A fleeting joy, a bitter taste,
And sorrow’s voice is all you hear.

Through hollow dreams and fragile days,
It weaves a web of false delight,
But every sip, a step astray,
From freedom’s ever-distant light.

Oh, the scars it leaves within,
Invisible, yet deeply worn,
In the battle none can win,
A soul in silence, tattered, torn.