Boarding House; 1913

In a magical genuflection,

a boarder re-flamed a bundle

of wood, so smooth, so

harsh, sitting above all else in a

modern world, and he pained

for the old days, but the

cold wind never hurt

anymore, perhaps it’s the

beard he grows now, or his

lack of amiable care, but

when the snow begins to

fall so quietly among men,

he buries his heart in each

deep ridge, only combed

over by gentle rakes and

hobos drunk on gin; rebel

scouts seeking a renegade

heart; but a passing squall

never hears his cry, and the

message froze stiff inside

the bottle, so eternally

scuffed and empty of love, he

flicked the match aloft, flung

and cancerous, black and soot,

and he mouthed each name,

one by one, as he poured his

life into burnt reflection, tears

sizzling with each drip and drop.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on November 16, 2016.

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