Stephanie Arwen Lynch
I wonŽt look at old pictures
Sprinkle salt in that open wound
I wonŽt squeeze that empty heart
Hoping for some latent glow.
IŽll just wrap this up in tissue
Layered with tape and sand.
One to lock it in.
One to grind it in.
This knowledge that the jar of hope
Transparent now empty of light.
The dead fireflies bang the walls
Where they once drifted easy.
Beacons loveŽs last laugh.
Now they lie.
Just like those old pictures.