Rebellion smells like apples, cinnamon
and *****.
On a gravel road swallowed whole by
a surrounding forest of lush greens
we stood in opposition, revolution
firearms nestled in our hands.

We rebelled against alcoholism.
Drunk, amber soldiers stumbled across
the uneven surface of the log they vacated.
Our bullets shattered them one by one.
The rifle’s kick back slammed against me.
The cracking echo of each gunshot
filled the hollow chiseled in my chest
and tenderized my brain.    

Shards of hard cider and hard liquor
spattered the dirt; the bright red
of the Angry Orchards’ labeling
bleeding war into the earth and grit.

We searched for survivors.  
The air was perfumed with Cinnamon Apple
and *****.
The soft spice of autumn and harvest
wafted gently up my nose
followed by the sharp scent of
disinfectant, hospitals, stainless steel.
It was the smell of *****, my default.

Nudging a dusty bottle neck with my toe
I couldn’t help but think back to  
the angry, open-mouthed kisses
I once shared with my bottles
early in the morning until late at night.
A furious thirst surged through me.
I still wanted a drink.

The little bird was trapped
Behind the gilded cage
The butterfly was trapped
Inside the mason jar
The firefly was caught
From his home
And they patiently wait
Hoping and praying...
And then one day
A girl with gentle hands
Opens the little bird's cage
And releases him
With her pretty smile
She says, "Be free, little one!"
A youthful boy that same day
Open's the butterfly's jar
And with one final look at her dazzling beauty
He softly whispers, "You're free at last."
Another girl that same day
Opens the jar the firefly lives in
Trapped inside the walls of glass
She opens the lid and says,
"Fly away, little firefly, fly away!
You are free at last."

*~Marian~