the antithesis of alibi
All the stars are falling, wishes wasted, candles spent. The glass is a slow tide, trickling away in the artificial light. The winds moves the trees, the whole sky sets its hips to swaying. The limbs of the cut down tree scrape the wall, sounding like a broom upon the walk. Midnight stills, then overflows. The lights are out and the door is left open wide.
You wrote your name in lipstick, in kisses and hyperbole on the empty page. You drank too much and picked a fight. Wild times I would have said, had I not been adrift in the breakage, words the only constant I'd allow. The good old days I would have said, ignoring the wreckage and the ruin that could only make me laugh. Spattered blood and broken bottles. Poems that were supposed to be about love.
It is in the moth beating away at the bare bulb. It is in the claims laden with sweat and dust. The night drives, its slow engine all gasp and sputter. The mood dives, blood having to have a say. I muscle through shards and artifacts, careful to bury the lead far from consecration. All the stops and pauses, the line breaks and lover's aches and failures of punctuation. These trifles trail along the quiet walls and crowded pages. The physics of every broken bond written down, the antithesis of alibi. The sky a swollen river, full of drowning dreams.
All the stars are falling, wishes wasted, candles spent. The glass is a slow tide, trickling away in the artificial light. The winds moves the trees, the whole sky sets its hips to swaying. The limbs of the cut down tree scrape the wall, sounding like a broom upon the walk. Midnight stills, then overflows. The lights are out and the door is left open wide.
You wrote your name in lipstick, in kisses and hyperbole on the empty page. You drank too much and picked a fight. Wild times I would have said, had I not been adrift in the breakage, words the only constant I'd allow. The good old days I would have said, ignoring the wreckage and the ruin that could only make me laugh. Spattered blood and broken bottles. Poems that were supposed to be about love.
It is in the moth beating away at the bare bulb. It is in the claims laden with sweat and dust. The night drives, its slow engine all gasp and sputter. The mood dives, blood having to have a say. I muscle through shards and artifacts, careful to bury the lead far from consecration. All the stops and pauses, the line breaks and lover's aches and failures of punctuation. These trifles trail along the quiet walls and crowded pages. The physics of every broken bond written down, the antithesis of alibi. The sky a swollen river, full of drowning dreams.