Broken glass lies in the gutter

Discarded by bloody hands

Under a frigid, pale sun

keeping warmth to itself

The tramp stoops to pick a shard

A smear of blood at its tip

Whose blood is it?

A stranger's?

His daughter's?

It could be, for all he knows

It's been so long

Since he failed

Since he let them down

Since he gave up trying

Sometimes, the mind

can be a cruel instrument

to a beating heart

But, could it really be hers?

How would he know?

Years upon years

He reaches inside a pocket

Pulls out a bottle

A swig for comfort

But the shard...

The way it curves

A hint of a label?

Familiar

The same as the bottle in his hand?

Perhaps, the very same

He sees a tramp in the distance

He drops the shard

But, the bottle bleeds too

His daughter's blood

He throws it to the gutter

It shatters, like his life

He runs to some dank refuge 

A tramp appears, stoops

There's a glimmer in the gutter

There's a glimmer in the gutter

There's a glimmer in the gutter

 

Picture by Levelat