His freedom was amber liquid in glass bottles, the aroma of burning rubber on tarmac.
His theme song was the crackle of static on the radio, accompanied by the squealing of tires swerving over white and yellow lines, intoxicated light swaying over night trees.
Her freedom was the money she was saving, dreams of someday walking out of a dingy diner, never looking back at the sputtering fluorescent sign.
Her dreams ended with the glare of his headlights.
He no longer drives, his legs resistant to his will.
He no longer drinks, water now given by tubes and nurses' hands.
She was nothing more than the memory of the crunching of glass, of bone. Her metal casket was replaced by a wooden one.
Sitting behind a rail, under the grim judgment of a black robe, he couldn't part his lips to plead guilty.
His crime? His freedom took away hers.
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Poems
PoesiaPoems I've written when the mood has struck or when I don't want to cry so I write or when I want to procrastinate other writing or because I just felt like it. Here you go.
