All The King's Men

Glass bottles on the windowsill, standing proud and still for all to see. The grunge of sweat and tears no longer stains; only transparent glass remains, polished and clear. Once prized and cherished, now cold and useless. Open mouths reaching upwards in protest, longing to be filled. The tops were never found. Emptiness abounds.

The windowsill is full of emptiness, growing everyday like a bad addiction, new and clean replacing old and dusty, overflowing, lingering precariously on the edge. Spinning, tumbling, crashing against harsh reality like raindrops falling on barren trees. Over and over. 

Sharp chunks of failure and disappointment scattered across the floor, the bottles are nothing more. 

All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put Humpty together again.