bottom of the bottle

at the bottom of the bottle lay the final wishes.
irrecoverable, painfully arcane, buried in
regret and the ruby blue faceted glass, a prison
for what was once a man. now vivisected for whimsy
and whatever sustenance he surrendered too gladly,
madly shedding skin and sin for brittle reality
that was always just in the next pair of eyes that perceived
him, trapped in this lifeless state, waiting for the redemption
from his own regrets. forgiven of God, but not by man,
or woman, damned to be bound in a metaphoric maze
where love is a bandyword posturing children abuse
in their mad rush to be grown into a society
where grace is perfidy, power is abuse, and pretty
butterfly lies are best forgotten before the mourning.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.