as the days turn to fire for retribution

and the nights turn to ice for revenge,

i watch the smoke curl over the mountains

grayish-pink sunsets smelling of apples and your grandfather's attic

and here i thought we were all going to die someday;

incorrect;

our corpses (sacks of what used to be our livelihood, exhales of what used to be our lives) will 

the world is colder than before

north winds exhaling dragon breath across the valley and

my doorstep where i wait for the bus (bumblebee against concrete),

rubbing my hands together and