By Trent Thiele
In winter’s somber, broken snowfall
lies the man who lost all, hoping
he can find peace in the bottom
of the bottle in brown paper.
The inviting warmth in his stomach
teases its way up his mangled throat
and entices him to forget his family,
beaten and dejected.
Misery arrives in waves of violet,
visions come creeping where
tranquility ceases to exist,
in the deep recesses of his skull.
The child with puppy eyes is beaten
as the brain throbs with authority,
Purple bruises press on his eye.
Cyclically comes the victim in white,
a voice quieter than resentful whispers
cries out in agony as treated leather
strikes down with divine providence.
As the last touch of liquid freezes,
a man realizes his worth as a sack of flesh
and blood that occupies the space between
Heaven and Hell, to be eaten by worms in death.
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