bottle-collected briste

if they knew…

the limbs torn from within

sinews ripped apart, dream after dream

bone after bone, flesh after flesh,

and never to join

never in care-

for care does not disappoint

and tenderness is a touching that lasts.

the tune goes on and on and on

from the strawberry angel taken from me

to the one that never saw it coming till too late-

you thought you had me played like a piano

each tear coming, as you ran your fingers down those keys-

you thought you had an ending for my song.

but no one knew

the king of Rejected,

the one Women disposed,

the one always hurt,

would wait for a word from beyond-

on the night air, beside the moon

at the back of the North Wind-

to come take these tears

bottle-collected briste:

these moments awake

year after year, night after night,

broken-glass brokenness


Briste (Irish)- (BRISH-dee) Broken, (implying) Brokenness

About thelostkerryman

Thelostkerryman is an author, and entrepreneur, living in the forests of a consistently confused country. Here in this hill country, hurling doesn't usually involve a hurley; store-made soda bread has the consistency of a sea sponge; and Kerrygold butter has finally found a permanent place on the grocery shelves everywhere. His blogs are an account of his adventures, thoughts, eclectic -and eccentric- ramblings, random or insightful poetry, humor and non-humor, pictures (photos), video, essays, fiction, poetic fiction, nonfiction, drama, and writing he has not classified in the description above. All of his posts from,,, and are copywrited according to international copywrite law.
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2 Responses to bottle-collected briste

  1. gimpet says:

    I love that word, akin to triste (sadness). I will have to use it!

  2. Pingback: Priestly Serious | thelostkerryman

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