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

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s