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 !.
Copyright © Peter Hall | Year Posted 2014
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