The cold floats over my dying energy
Shedding the ghosts from my skin
My breath has left a sticky gloss –
Over the plastic thin shoebox windowpane.
My last breath in the stained carpets of poverty.
The wind tunnels through the apartments
Like a storm, like a voice
That rips through my eardrum
They whisper the suicides to me
Like the embracing kiss of all seven archangels
To greet God in the corner
Behind the burning candles
That attempt to save me
My hands are clammy
And the shadows are already in unison to dance
Dance my freedom away
From this plane
From the rags of this old shoebox The conquering of another peasant.
also published on Icefloe Press
photo by Cody Chan