Fire lights the sky.
Dirt, soft from burial.
No need to cleanse this new skin.
The eyes, they feel the same, though they are not.
Ever-changing shades, how different the scent.
Courses, taste bitter as usual.
Over consumption bleeds exhaustion,
Frailty and bruises sink, no room in the shallows,
My hangman, the Windsor, is calling.
Image: Alex Grey