Tuesday, December 1, 2009


Gracing the dead end
stationary gusts encircling
the quiver of post traumatic cigarettes
After burning her brain
taking roll cry of course wept
liquidating my dust and ashes
I check emotions off my tarnished transcript
time lost to records of my beloved friendships
reigniting drowning in our chest
as melting perceptions
like seltzer tablets in a bird's breast.
collapsing into our repetition, concave
precise thrift store words
gasping away resentment's cremation.

Receiving ice
cream, weights lifted with innate muscle
honesty, precipitating our facial fortification
aroused in sad peace
I write of Orchids that are no longer flowers
-By Grace Byrne

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