In the dimly lit corner of a quiet bar,
We lift our spirits in crystal jars.
The amber liquid, a modest disguise,
Of truths revealed and whispered lies.

Each glass raised is a fleeting escape,
From daily burdens that silently scrape.
In every sip, a moment’s reprieve,
From the chains of thoughts we’ve grieved.

The laughter echoes, a fragile facade,
Masking souls that feel so marred.
Beneath the surface, hidden scars,
Mended briefly by liquid stars.

As the night deepens and shadows grow,
We drown our sorrow in a gentle flow.
Morning comes with a sober dawn,
And the night’s elixir is but a yawn.