Flightless Grey Birds

Flightless grey birds, newspapers

full of yesterday’s faces, crumpled and torn, trampled

the room is littered with my most valued possessions

turned out across the floor carelessly

smashed up, because they hit a raw nerve or two.

 

They remind me of innocence

or lack of it

my first cigarette

my last gulp of wine

each tear-drop, scar and bruise

moments.

 

I’m worn thin with them, in this

sleep deprived, self-imposed isolation

as the pen bleeds melancholia

long into the small hours

into the dawn, into the day

through stained fingertips

into the clammy afternoon.