Buried Horses – Tom Dacre’s Blues

Ashes fall from the chimney so maudlin. Sodden haunts returning thoughts to your flue. Did your body snap? Was it made of porcelain? Could my shakey hand prepare a splint to repair poor ghostly? Kindling. Little kindling. Lit a fire under. Kindling. Little kindling. Lit a fire under and over you. Winter came to asphyxiate the autumn’s neck. Cold and cruel the lonely coffin of black and ash. The solstice split our spirits in two. Will this pain subside by dousing it with sad sapphire? Kindling. Little kindling. S’all remains of. Kindling. Little kindling. Lift my blanket under and over you. So still you are sealed inside an urn. Consider heaven. Is it warm? Will I feel the cold when I am not locked to the bottle? Our achey frames deteriorate. Our stale mouths are coughing crimson. We’re dwindling. We’re crawling on our wretched hands and shivering knees with candle teeth. We crawled into our beds into our death


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