You called me the other night
and you were dead, stinking drunk.
Every other word was a curse word
as you heaped abuse upon the world,
while I only listened and prayed.
Your voice was dark and growling.
You said you had a cold.
"A fucking bad cold,"
you called it.
But I think it was the demon's voice,
the distilled spirit that now vies
for your soul.
Until that night I held hope for you;
believed that you could give up
drinking and start living life again.
Before that night I doubted
the existence of demons,
the kind that torment
lost and empty souls.
But that night, I heard a demon's voice
coming from someone that I love,
and I realized that you are now
in God's hands, and He alone can save you.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012