...that cloak its fetal position body;
caused by the lip of a bottle.
A tiny figure,
in comparison to the clear glass,
is still hugging their knees
within.

Emptiness surrounds me,
and to stop and think
about it,
and through it
would mean,
to acknowledge me.

The mold was created,
glass casted into the fire,
long before it had residence.

The joints of the body,
are featured to fold,
is such a secure fashion.

Logic choked the the child, cheerfully, within;
it left the body of the little one,
still dressed up in adult clothes,
in the papasan chair.

Sound doesn't shatter glass;
the silence is slowly distorted,
by the sobs of melancholy
within.


The bottle's empty;
I drowned in the emptiness.