THE PROPHET

What mystery could he hope to unlock
Each morning after the bars had closed
When blood shot eyes could scarcely guide
A key to open his apartment door?

Yet once inside he soberly wrote
Though no one paid much attention
Until the time he missed a brew
That quenched his thirst for good.

Now he fumbles for an elusive key
In empty pockets as he staggers home
Alone except for the memory
Of his warning about what must come.