Glass Bottle

Nights like these, were they ever made to feel like cold glass bottles? Beads of sweat that surface of faint heat, the breeze of ghostly outdoor air, the sound of creeping and desperate knocks. This bed, which would rather be my hollow floor, traps me in this state that not even the passionate feeling of rest could hold. A frenzy that lets go, a parade that tramples. Poetry and memory, all held together in one box in my head, between walls of misfortune and doubt, and one way roads of joy and conversation. Cold glass bottles, frosted and dazed, can be broken with one tap of the unlucky finger. They can be sung to, hit with, smashed on the ground and finally swallowed. And in all convenience, taped back together in its worst case scenario. Yet hidden away, what more could it do then to sit and grab dust. Beyond the bed, this is what traps me. From the rim and to the area, all enclosed. And from what I believe, hidden away.