Broken Bottles

The breaking of bottles
liquid splashes and drips
dropping like low volume bombs
the after math of violence
there was anger
and it was expressed here
among the burning photographs
a pyre of memories
letting go
they're not right
they were never right
but this compulsive liar
of a concubine
seduces me into a bitter pit
where reality is a slap in the face
it lacks a script
as if there was a script writer
in the first place
taking what matters
into my own fleshy hands
coated with dry cracking skin
Winter's damage
I squeeze the air ways
until those glass eyes
bordered in eye liner
turn pale
tossing those eyes into the pyre
I light a cigarette
and return to my broken bottles
to apologize