to an immaterial vortex
to an aching scar that speaks
through the sinews of a new wound
streams of punished life
go braided into braided hellfire
mud whirlpools on the ceilings of the dead
the gilt frame of a gasoline cathedral
summoning the courage of the damned.
Disembodied wolves on temporal surfaces
cannot stir this frozen blood
but the torn sun can
and it shits its light
in a chain of chattering skulls
to annoy the linen clad ghosts
who are glad to be going without a soundtrack
glad to be going with razor bones
and insufficient twilight
glad to be the dead
with luminescent eyes.
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