Bottles in the Snow.

I will drop one more for you,
oh yes if you ask it of me,
even if you don't,
neither of us cares enough to care anymore,
when all words come in anger,
when the story becomes tired and predictable,
the characters drawn or overwrought,
the flawless sphere crushed to a mound of powdered glass,
when ideals once held are debased and ridiculed,
relics of a cleaner existence.

I will drop one more for you,
in crystalline purity,
frosted to perfection beneath the shrouded moon,
resonating the descending clarion note,
echoing through the shadowed trees,
slips silently cross the moonlit snow,
in times of deep reflection.

When all we care about turns to ash,
grits the path of our progress,
draws us further into the measured metallic clicks,
the constant whirr and clank,
the soft hiss of well greased bearings,
the roar of the ever hungry furnaces,
the thin film of soot and oil covering all,
I will drop one more for you.