The Empty Glass

THE EMPTY GLASS

by

Gordon Kuhn

1st Draft 2/19/2010 0430

From death I summoned mortal self and painful woke

from darkness I mental stumbled, staggered, crawled

while blurred vision within a thought that spoke

to none while no sound passed from lips came forth or scrawled

its simple presence, message, all upon the empty, silent, motionless, nonexistent wind

while with blurred sight of that I thought once, read, felt was or had been friend

had once been full but now an empty, stained, drying glass set before me then

an empty glass where once I thought that truth had run but neither truth or sin

were settled then within a tilted landscape revealed the bottle thought surely left full

but empty stands the space within glass walls while hungry lips would desperate seek to pull

one drop, one taste, to wet a dry aching parched throat, a breath to calm my throbbing soul

my brain afire as though within it lay beneath a blazing stack of glowing coal

upon there rests a frying pan which sizzles, dark red glows without a drop of oil

to soften, calm or aid the cooking toil

instead a crimson surface where words like drops of water fell

to dance across the surface in dying screaming voices tell

“Hey,” the distant voice did break the silent sound and say

“we’ve closed and need you now to up and pay

and sleep not here you cannot stay.”

Oh God, what hell is this where I now exist

of lights turned brightly on and noises which won’t resist

but in gladness seem to persist in the desire to torture this drunken piece of flesh and bone

and each muttered empty word strikes like a heavy stone

strikes and shatters stone on stone to gravel scatters shards like glass cut the flesh

of that which sober hours before now lies in tatters held by simple mesh

of skull bone which in deep despair if I could but shatter upon the wall

while coughing empty my stomach up upon the floor in the hall

that ought to piss the bastards off that drag me from this corner table cell

and roughly deposit me upon the curb wet with rain and in anger tell

me to not come back again unless my pocket book is full then would happy sell

me life in glass and bottle and my own table against the wall could sit

as once before when money graced my pockets and could laugh and sing a bit

but now I lay in a tight knit ball, in pain near the filling draining gutter

and listen to the rain splash and careless stutter

while my clothes grow wet and cold

and I realize that for such place as this I’ve only told

the story of what my cost was for the drink my life, my job, my health I sold.

Copy Write: Gordon Kuhn 2/19/10

Gordon Kuhn
“The strongest reason for the people to retain the right to keep and bear arms is, as a last resort, to protect themselves against tyranny in government” Thomas Jefferson
www.Cloudweavers.com

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