From dirt I rose into
the heat of the
burning flames at your bedside.
Your home—not lost
but on the run
no longer so scorned by our bright sun—
flies lower than a murder of crows
near the lake where the gold-fish grow:
wanting and waning as gold-fish do,
the odor of defeat smelling louder
than two cattle-men:
rank and defined...
with notes of loss,
where desperate breaths are never new.
the heat of the
burning flames at your bedside.
Your home—not lost
but on the run
no longer so scorned by our bright sun—
flies lower than a murder of crows
near the lake where the gold-fish grow:
wanting and waning as gold-fish do,
the odor of defeat smelling louder
than two cattle-men:
rank and defined...
with notes of loss,
where desperate breaths are never new.
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