Friday, February 6, 2009


Glass bottles, gently carved from the shifting sands of the earth,
they are lined along the wall, soldiers facing the world, their blank faces staring out at you,
colourful labels and designs so fine,
all lined up in one long line,
sealed and sold, carried clandestinely in a brown paper bag, just under your arm.
But here they sit, still innocent,
nothing wrong to be done here, only looking but for that the price is free.
Try it just once, and you'll try it again,
circles of well-pounding metal encapsulate them from future patrons, waiting
longing, to be opened, their contents hurriedly swallowed in a frenzy,
remains a mystery, since nothing inside them is really all reality.
Lights shine up behind them, the eyes if angels, watching over us as we paw them, eye them, caress them,
hope for one moment that the security cameras, policemen, casheers, and laws will cease to exist so we can scoop them up, cradle them in our arms,
and disappear.
Such desperate longing is the way of the devil,
or so it has been said by many who know what lies locked within those cylinders of glass,
and who would gladly tell you they had no need for it in their lives,
when really all it does is walk them through life in a stupor of fantasy, like a dead dog on a leash.
They would have you believe that, because they cannot believe it themselves;
they do not want to believe it.
crystal glass dances in the sparkle of the lights, giving off an irreplaceable sheen
draws you in
it's reaching desire and playfulness tricking your heart.
It wants you to believe.
It wants you to love.
It wants you to be deceived.
It wants you to surrender.
so many, it grabs
holding onto their shirt collars with more force than a politician on campaign day,
more force than you will ever see displayed by a policeman.
Just that power itself is enough to do some people in, they don't need to stick around and see the rest of what it has to offer them,
the delights, the fears, the shadows and signs.
They may not have seen it already, but they are filled up by it.
They are finished by it.
Let the thunder pound down and the rainfall roll over,
as we sit and we wait for these times to be over,
the smiles of those who sell and the greedy, impatient hands of those who have come to claim their eagerly awaited glass-cloaked prizes, which
on some occaisions, take no time in taking those lives,
for which they have been bought and sold for in front of some eyes.

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