not yet now

Into the couch of your grave I fly,
never questioning why to your eye.

I watch you die.

Day by day
machine play
in never-lounge cushions.
Cards against humanity.

A symbol-grinding ending to the groove of who we were.

Echoes of flies
fill time’s windows.
A volume of buzzing collides
with words set fire.

You are almost gone,
like syllables stoked to ash.

Brenda Warren 2016


Visit the Sunday Whirl

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