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iron-y

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

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