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I stop in my tracks,           Listening   A hollow clinking in the darkness. In an alleyway, somewhat familiar, Vacant and forgotten in the twilight hours Except for the lingering cigarette smoke And the scent of frigid, dehumanizing hate   And a clink Low and somehow beneath the dense, dank dark   A sound disillusioning and honed to a fine point, like that of a blade meant to harvest death   A clink And another clink                            There is a man sitting near the end of the alley                            At the back of the throat of Hell itself                            He has his head down                            But through the thick black smudge of night                            I can still see the base of a brown glass bottle tap the bottom of an upper row of teeth He stops, and looks up at me with eyes that resemble mine a little too much for my comfort                                     He brings the bottle down, and lowers his head, gazing at it as if for the first time                                     Suddenly he snaps his eyes up to mine, instantly staring into the deep void of apathy that looks back.                                     He smiles a knowing smile, and slams the bottle against his teeth.               It does much more than clink.
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May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
Sins of the Father
I stop in my tracks,           Listening   A hollow clinking in the darkness. In an alleyway, somewhat familiar, Vacant and forgotten in the twilight hours Except for the lingering cigarette smoke And the scent of frigid, dehumanizing hate   And a clink Low and somehow beneath the dense, dank dark   A sound disillusioning and honed to a fine point, like that of a blade meant to harvest death   A clink And another clink                            There is a man sitting near the end of the alley                            At the back of the throat of Hell itself                            He has his head down                            But through the thick black smudge of night                            I can still see the base of a brown glass bottle tap the bottom of an upper row of teeth He stops, and looks up at me with eyes that resemble mine a little too much for my comfort                                     He brings the bottle down, and lowers his head, gazing at it as if for the first time                                     Suddenly he snaps his eyes up to mine, instantly staring into the deep void of apathy that looks back.                                     He smiles a knowing smile, and slams the bottle against his teeth.               It does much more than clink.
#love#poetry#depression#hate#dad#you#me#nightmare#alcoholism
LunarLena
Written by
LunarLena
32/GF
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
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