The breaking of bottles <br />liquid splashes and drips <br />dropping like low volume bombs <br />the after math of violence <br />there was anger <br />and it was expressed here <br />among the burning photographs <br />a pyre of memories <br />letting go <br />they're not right <br />they were never right <br />but this compulsive liar <br />of a concubine <br />seduces me into a bitter pit <br />where reality is a slap in the face <br />it lacks a script <br />as if there was a script writer <br />in the first place <br />taking what matters <br />into my own fleshy hands <br />coated with dry cracking skin <br />Winter's damage <br />I squeeze the air ways <br />until those glass eyes <br />bordered in eye liner <br />turn pale <br />tossing those eyes into the pyre <br />I light a cigarette <br />and return to my broken bottles <br />to apologize<br /><br />Justin Tallman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/broken-bottles-2/
