Broken Bottles

His pain labelled his face Like an abandoned quarry full of "danger" signs His guilt numbed his emotions Like the blandest sand dune in the Saharra With a head full of broken bottles His mind was severed from clear thinking. My father slept walked through life. Ruled by the thoughts of others Governed by their selfish labels Mixed with self lies Stirred by a wooden spoon: a race to the bottom. With four hours to go The light turns on !. New light reflects through the broken bottles Joins the dots The shards of glass becomes holders of love. More than four hours though... Shines forever !.