Boiling point

Heat glues you slow, and down, and

Drawls like an accent,
Southern and thickened with syrup 

Too hot for soul

To move, to think, and ah,

The drink that would quench you

Swept down, the throat

Like it never was meant to, despite how

You meant it

To, stench of yourself

And intent to compel 

Your self to go on, keeps the flow, but low,

Lower, flows still, and how? You don't know,

And lower, until, spent,

You remember

That once, was it true?

You're not sure,

But they say it was

Cool.

Cool,

And low.

Slow, with the scent of reminder

Of who

You thought
You knew
You were.