Bottles

Those are bodies, not bottles,
Stacked below your window.
Fractured faces stare at you
From the broken sparkle
Of each bloody shard.

That is a pyre, not a pile,
Whose glow bleaches the sun.
Jagged limbs flame from the heap
And lunge like razor blades
Through the soot and smoke.

Ashes are no ink for songs.
No fire from your pen
Can ever perfume these lines
With a scent sweet enough
That cinders will sing.