The Morning After
Poem By Matthew Shoemaker
Empty bottles lie like dead soldiers
In a field of debris, but the night
Lingers on despite its casualties.
Our heads spin like the turntable
That brings life to the atmosphere.
You will never look this beautiful
Again, and he knows it.
Following white lines to oblivion;
Speeding up to slow back down.
How many? You ask someone.
But nobody remembers now,
And you lost count hours ago.
You run as fast as you can,
But the morning runs faster.