Reply Sun 20 Jan, 2013 04:01 am
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
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