Smoke

ten years of smoke on the hands

ashes buried deep in the cold, dark ground

a bonfire burnished with bursts of laughter

a twisted neck; a tilted head; a wry smile

a box of saccharine trinkets

the nectar purchased from your own skin

the sting in the want; a tragedy of free will

whimsy of women who run with the does

& how the price of red paint, like the color of blood

is set in the hearts of collapsing stars

a pale blue light illuminating precarious minds

the new lost world, a uterine universe

stoked by the tender violence of our nearest star

the weights behind the wall of flames

and the wild eyes of one attacking from inside

every single word to drain sorrows

from empty worlds