Flightless Grey Birds (Reworked)

Flightless grey birds,
Newspapers, yesterday’s ghosts,
History crumpled,
Torn, trampled.
There’s a litter of prized possessions,
Turned out across the floor,
Smashed, cracked, over-analysed,
Hitting raw nerves daily.
I remember, innocence,
A little less with every cigarette,
Gulp of wine, teardrop,
Each scar.
Sleep deprived,
I’m worn thin with this,
Endless no-show,
Self-imposed isolation.
The inkwell bleeds out melancholia,
Long into the small hours,
Into the dawn, the day,
Into stained fingertips,
The clammy afternoon.

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