Flightless Grey Birds

Flightless grey birds,

Newspapers,

Yesterday’s faces,

Crumpled, torn and trampled.

 

The room is littered with,

My most prized possessions,

I have turned them out across the floor,

Having smashed them up,

They’ve been hitting raw nerves.

 

They remind of innocence,

Or lack of it,

My first cigarette,

My last gulp of wine,

Each teardrop,

Scar and bruise.

 

I’m worn thin with this,

Sleep deprived, self-imposed isolation,

The inkwell bleeds melancholia,

Long into the small hours.

 

Into the dawn,

Into the day,

Through stained fingertips,

Into the clammy afternoon.

 

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