Tom Dacre's Blues

Cinders fall from the chimney so maudlin.
Sodden haunts returning thoughts to your flue.
Did your body snap? Was it made of porcelain?
Could my shaky hand prepare a splint
to repair poor ghostly you?
Little kindling. Lit a fire under.
Kindling. Lit a fire under and over you.
Winter came to asphyxiate the autumns neck.
Cold and cruel the lonely coffin of black and ash.
The solstice split our spirits in two.
Will this pain subside by dousing it with sad sapphire blue?
Little kindling. With a fire under.
Kindling. Sweep my blanket over and under you.
So still you are sealed inside an urn.
Consider heaven. Is it warm?
Will I feel the cold when I'm not locked to the bottle?
Our achey frames deteriorate.
Our stale mouths are coughing crimson.
We're dwindling.
We're crawling on our wretched hands
and shivering knees with candle teeth.
We crawled into our beds into our deaths.

Mark Berry