23 April 2012


Mornings after the fire-fight,
mornings after the last words flung
careless buckshot memories.
Mornings after the plates shattered,
the glasses fractured, words razored,
all thrown at highest pitch-- irrevocable.
In the mornings, after the bottles
get rinsed in soapy water, dropped
in recycling bins, regrets well deep
and darken what remains.
We always regret the mornings after;
why do we repeat the nights before?

Prompt=mornings. And yes, this is a fiction. Peace...

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