pressed back from some fine orb
blood fallen, sinking in
not carried by the wind
sun torn by hooks that spring
from rotting flesh
a nest that sighs and strangles
in the fizz of smashed words
paths of fire mark the stone sides
climbing to unborn heaven
the wrecked ghost has a marble shine
his slumber on the snow is strange
these clouds of wire remember
their dreams were
of an order without change
but I am the ax shattered
into arrowheads
as if the shaft mattered
light breaking from a shadow's prison range
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