why burn the bridge?
so that no wounded birds could live under it
to keep their wounds alive
your irony is like sulfur
“no” is a burning word
takes the iron rod giver to say it right
they undo every right and fight for every wrong
like that recalled letter of apology
drop-dead bird
mockingly unsent
ungone, unknowing of its power
ironic like dried sunflower
on a blue chalkboard
the art of death reigns in their hearts
there is only defiance of dessicated flowers
between acknowledgment of rain
given in the right season
and the first hydrating sip of life
as it were to be
fractions matter, splits of seconds are life
ages of stubborn magma buildup can crumble
in a blink of an eye, when you see
how many grand personas brake down
between saying thank you and being grateful
always
