by James Byrne
I was sick of home, now i’m Homesick;
a serious case of the human condition.
Small town suffocation.
We held asphyxiation parties: choked our youth in a
haze of alcohol, drugs and cigarette smoke.
Living for the weekend – but each one weakened us,
I couldn’t take it anymore.
But now, nostalgic bedbugs bite at night.
The smallest things can hurt the most.
Memories, like cluster-headaches, ignite
bright signal fires home;
Cutting through the darkness.
Sharpened on the whetstone, night after night,
cutting so deeply.
I don’t mind that much.
But, when time entombs them with just placards to
explain them, I fear I’ll stop feeling them.
© 2018 JAMES BYRNE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.