By Taylor Drake
I wrote this one with blood stained hands, where the ink begins and my own claret ends, I can't say.
A stone mason's hammer swipes away at my frontal lobe. Every few minutes the friction bears a lowly glint and the scenario replays.
This tattered screen opens with a static watermark strolling to the dwarfed lights.
The shrill moans of hell could be heard, through this homestead in a blaze. Wood splits and mangles like bones under permafrost.
Idle molecules of lint recant involvement on this arid dimension. Meanwhile, the fire plays silent to a saint vow. If only 15 feet high flames didn't leave a great tell.
These enigmatic badlands wash away the shell casings I limp past. A melody wadded down from the moon. The tissue around my wounds frosted over. I stagger through subdued pain while fleeing the scene.
The ember I write this on is starved to the bone. I left it on the stoop.