Silent are the weeping willows 
this time of year,
Bending to the weight of rainfall 
or hooded ornaments. 
Branches splintering off into 
dissolutions of a holiday,
The party goes on, I’m sure 
that’s what they’ll all say. 

Though a chair is left empty at 
the setting this year,
A carcass carved through by the
wings and gutted up
the belly of an indulgent beast. 
They spread the greed like butter,
while I mull over wine. 

A hollow setting masques a fair 
weather merriment,
A soiled bride and a groom whom 
finds solace in the mirror. 
Debauchery can eventually become 
truth when
you glance off into the void and allow 
its whispers to warp reality. 

But awareness has always shaken my
shoulders or spat in my face. 
I stare at a fire crackling in the depths 
of an hour too dark,
Swiping the phlegm and postulated 
insincerity from my face. 
And I know that I may be alone, but I 
am less lonely than I am
At the table of forlorn regrets, death 
and unfamilial-arity. 

– B. 

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