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Bones creak as I riseTo dim gray morning light.Stumbling across the floorCrimson life from my lip takes flight.
Sometimes I want to be dead, But usually, I don't.  After all, it's all in my head,  So, of course, I certainly won't. But I don't want to be alive, At least not alive like this.
I hear a roaring in the walls at night, I believe it is the pipes Or maybe the furnace screaming to let it catch our home on fire I imagine the roaring to be the outcry of us, pure hatred
The wheel of the year started with me in the sleeping death that is ashen winter snow. Everything that had been there had burned away; only charred remnants were left in the dead sea of what was.  
What is left of the past, When we walk down the streets, The ones we lived upon,  And the seem to be an empty memory. The faded pictures of people we knew, An old recording of me and you.
The faces fade to ash Photographs discolored to the sickly yellow Of rotting buttercups and stagnant sunlight Captured in dust-coated rooms   Disintegrating into something less than nothing
I. First-light   Eyes fly open and I light up a cigarette. Check to see…yep, still there.  I slowly unfurl My cramped wings, the slow rustle of feathers
Subscribe to ash