The Broken Spirits

Late at night, the broken spirits sit on barstools, hunched over the counter like question marks

They ponder their place in this world

They drown their sorrows in bourbon to escape the outer flood attempting to engulf them

I wonder if they will ever reach land

Their sad brown eyes glisten like the bourbon in their glass

Their souls empty like the hollow bottle

Like a label, they attach themselves to the bottle

A bottle so dark you cannot see its contents

You only learn of their contents after you absorb their poisonous substance

I wonder who planted the poison in them

Day in and day out, they are put on display for all to see

They are taken down to have their insides emptied out, only to be put back on the shelf

I wonder who put them there

The only spirit inside of them is one that comes in a bottle

They must keep everything inside

I wonder if they will ever break free

This poem is about: 
Our world


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