The Glassy Tenure

The bottle is empty,
Its laughing insides spilled into a pipeline subway.
Its treasure can neither be forced out
Nor taken quickly;
It must be coaxed slowly, slowly
As if the gaping throat of the sink
Were in need of emotion,
Having lost all its own.
Now the bottle is empty,
Now its curse is lifted,
Its reign is gone.
It can no longer take her from me
And turn her blood cold and sweet.
It has shouted its last cry of rage,
It has whined its last sob of rejection,
It has spit out its last humiliating words.
Its terrifying din travels a cold iron path,
Unfolding from the glass house like scarlet silk,
Leaving muted weariness where it struck.
There it lies on its side like one of its sorriest victims,
Last silken teardrops slipping from its mouth
(For it has no eyes by which to cry or see).
The bottle is empty,
To succor emptiness no more.