Gravity centers my feathers around your breath, my gears tear my body open, the steam escapes. For two weeks.
Mud keeps my size in check, crown slipping down my chest, heart held in dryness cracks. For two weeks.
Waves push my mouth below the break, birds flying through my face, drowning eyes full of moonlight. From us.
Hell steals my time within a match, lips burning on a brazen word, embracing disastrous logic. For two weeks.
Bells crash against our towers, calling saints to sign the deed, unrecognizable to our chapter... After.
No friendly shadow left behind.
Labels: artform, funeral, must i say what this is, winter passing
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