I C

I look up and see the bare walls and

I get a long view of things to come

Of yellow becoming orange as the nicotine

Stains drip down

And then there’s a cry from the bedroom

And a finch comes flying through

With a branch between its teeth

Since it’s a big finch

And it all becomes too long to follow

Until it all goes drab and noxious

And all it’s left in its wake

Is lies.

Copyright B E Saunders 2016

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