I never understood the old

women who longed

for heaven until

I became

an old woman

myself.

The streets needn't

be paved in gold

But straight vodka

With a sweet

chaser to chase

Away the demons

In my head.

But demons make

their bed

with false idols

Even the ones

You can imbibe.

Even the ones

That burn

the truth

all the way down.

And as you age

You believe

far less in fairytales

Like the parable

of the woman

who drunk herself

sad, and instead,

Believe in the beautiful

Truth of a place

Where God

Is the only intoxicant

And how I'll never

Get enough.