Sonnet to Broken Glass
The echoing moans of lost lovers
Trill in the mysterious streets of blue.
The whispers of an orphaned little brother
Singe skin and crust sickly eyelids like glue.
Coins slam the bar with a ringing fury.
Drums snap through the hordes of the pale glories.
Tonight I warm myself with calm whoring;
I’ll stretch out in the fine helm of stories.
The somber reflections in the water
Weep a stream of tears for the ancient ways.
The swaying meditation goes further
In the void’s miserable, nebulous haze.
Burning with the secret rail of acid.
There is no hope in this bitter passage.