Dumping Ground

Short memories of fuses,
shorter still.
Burn the birthday cards,
which hang on the sill.
Landfill the problems
as though it were plain,
like all we wanted was
a drop of this rain.
The standards are high;
don’t twitch or cry;
make a statue of stone;
let the pain die.
Branded and mean:
the clouds are uplifted.
When you quench cold dreams
of them: the ungifted.
Find a new tribute
to what is remained
or a smile and a kiss
and a tear that was feigned.
Pave a way to Graceland,
shining strips of white,
pollute the air with rhetoric;
forget the ancient blight.

One thought on “Dumping Ground

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