Old No. 7 Lullaby

He sits looking out the window with an old no.7 bottle in his hand. He lost her at the sword of his tongue. He always knew how to hurt her. If it wasn’t with his tongue it was with his hands. She saw the lasso wasn’t going to be strong enough to hold on to the tornado of his soul. She saw the light of their internal flame slowly dying. So she ran for independence, but fell on his doorstep when the doctor gave her the news. She hoped the news would rekindle the love they once had, but he dismissed her with a double bladed sword. She didn’t know what else to do, so she slowly let herself fall on the sword of a whiskey drunk abuser. So now she’s in the clouds looking down upon the house of her killer and she cries the loudest cries knowing he will never change. He couldn’t live with himself, so he summed her by drinking hoping she would get angry enough to make the wind roar and blow the house away with him in it, so he could fall at the sword of her hurt. And as the wind began to roar and the clouds grew darker and the rain began to pound on the windowpane he knew this was his end. He threw the bottle in his hand at the picture on the wall of the two of them kissing under the weeping willow tree outside. Then the tree outside swayed and then two graves appeared under it, while the house is gone and everything else is forgotten. All to be heard is a couple sing a whiskey lullaby to their unborn child.