Without Grace
time was our hunger
gnawing holes into our stomachs
the fence waiting to be jumped
the walls melting into us
the drab days of no light
the silence at the table of dysfunction
the long stare into empty glass
the terrain un-greened
the imprint of hard dirt and bitterweed
the longing for morning rain or distant seas
the white noise of open windows
the same, the same disappearing sun
collapsed, the graceless dreams
© Carly Bryson