it sounds like the bottle lead her to Christ
like crystals lead her to talks with angels
gem-like barlights shining like a revelation
inside a train station mind
she cried one more time as
words and songs and God failed her
dancing broken glass as her head collapsed
her eyewear bounced against the ground
her vision narrowing on sparkling shards
moving towards God in a bar
her heart stopped
whiskey soaked hands gripping a sticky table top
alone and no clarity offered by God or crystals or songs
just another folk singer in brown
just another forgotten strummer for the lovelorn
just another plastic visionary for the quarter bin
but some
still sing her songs
just
not her
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