Every Bottle; Wilting Crowns of Ivy and Lace

Every bottle holds a story,

a single tear of

past

future

now.

Galaxies upon galaxies are 

dreamt into feathers of

tomorrow,

birthed by the bygone bottles

of the moon.

Every child grows (and knows) 

the tale,

every man weaves his

thread.

Sisters and cousins

learn to be by the bottle,

the cocoon of life,

to be wary,

to grow in a

religion only the bottle 

holds.

Every bottle

holds a story,

a tear,

a feather,

a thread,

a religion.

Every bottle holds the dead.