We turned into strange things, barely moving.
And I looked up at what was coming down:
embers settling finely into the top of my skull,
and there is no shelter.

I am in a flow, I inherit every thought.
And I swear there's a trail in these floorboards,
as I breathe smoke from bedroom to the porch,
charring everything between the spine and the ribcage.

This is a wayward circuit I quietly race,
slower since the ash turned to sediment.
I live like my brain floats in a vacuum,
a black settlement lit by tiny, filtered fires.

But one day they'll find fossils,
and clouded, empty bottles.
We're only strays.
Last edited by Martyr's Prayer at Feb 14, 2015,