Birds To Bread

Preserving the good times,
Rows of jars upon shelf of mind
Maturing, stirring for down time.

How low does it go?
Before the birds pick the bread
The little that is left.

Junkie by candle light frightened
Sets out on the night
Wearing pride down.

The passing of another day's
Stale breath raising
Hats to strangers.

by Daniel J Robertson

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