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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