The sky is tragic, rippled with fire

I dream I am chased by a pale horse

I dream I am watching myself fighting in the Civil War

In black and white

Struck between the shoulder blades by a spear

My screams muffled by turf and tears

I dream of you and the way the sun melted your eyes

How I held you close as your liquorice skin charred and scorched

How I promised I would never let you go

Then held on until I was sure you wouldn’t noticed I had gone

Now I am downstairs

Now I am outside in the snow

The snow burns more than the fire

 

Who said there is no such thing as perfection?

Who’s sad there is no such thing as perfection?