Price to Pay

2/21/15

Beer bottle breath hung in the air
like a dense fog on a Sunday morning.
Life was playing on a VCR with no rewind,
a slow-mo play by play as the tape
fuzzed out without quite going away,
squealing tires and shattered glass
couldn't ask for another chance,
couldn't go back and take a different path.
It was too late.
Her name was Hope.
An angel taken away,
soon to be buried in a concrete grave,
a shallow memory ripping deep into the mind
as a turning point in someone else's life.
When the road was seen through the bottom
of a blue-bottled beer
that left wavy lines along
any rational decisions.
It was too late.
There's always a price to pay.