Alone, besmirched by wind,
visciously smitten by
the hammer of death.
Each blow against
the anvil of continuance erupts
shards of molten memories,
the shower of sparks
cascade and burn.

Besotted,
flesh transubstantiates
into cold canyons
of granite and steel,
with glazed glass eyes.

Refuge where
obscurity swallows pain
in a glass of chardonnay
and wisp of smoke
and a befuddled breath
waits for the mallet,
cursing the wind,
praying to be free...