Empty Shot Glass

Looking at this life through a tipped shot glass
Eyes that wonder what the taste could have been
Would’ve been
Seemingly impossible to tell
Through all the makeshift drama that seems to permeate
As the liquid drips. . . drips. . . down

Why is a beautiful question to ask ourselves
When everything seems to fall apart at the
Edges, especially with this miraculous thing
We call time
But it’s the pointless conundrum that makes everyone sleep at night
When they believe they have the answer. . .

Looking in the mirror hoping to find
Something, other than the steam
That hides the blemishes of an already
Perfect Face
When nothing makes sense and not even Windex
Can take away the streaks in the reflection

We wonder to ourselves again
The shot glass and drama that is, was and always will be
A fruitless endeavor
Hoping, praying, for one more shot
We walk away impervious to the notion that
It was all part of something bigger than ourselves