War In the Distance Is Better

This chair has chipped paint. Its shadow gangly in the light spilling through the window. A deep buttercup bisque steeps. Through this stream, ember motility of curdled cream seeps into pores. The seat embraces. Blood colors sugar soft. Fragments of dust waver around the chair. Like the suspended stars, or the pixel points on an LCD screen. Crumbs. Feathers stick to the cheeks, to be brushed off, puff into the heavens. Egg -white tinctured coat wilts within the humid air. Like the spectral skin you wished to shed when you first sundered the sheets this morning. This chair rocked my great grandmother and her children, and mother. Creaks like an anchored boat. Exposed grey brown wood perishes, stabs the skin. Like the chilled sea tinted eyes: an ingress tears the hushed air- a summons: her son. Long ago an apollyon. Starless. The chair will be kindle in September, sand- peach colors imbued, flushed like the candied burn of Fall. Her flames. Relive the fire in the sky; salt waters plum green, oily. tauten red orange arms. War in the distance- better. The rose portrait, diabolus shades stain a cimmeran- tinted loss, wound. Chalk inhaled. And the blaze of two black holes colliding. Wraiths. The winter of her life, within which a lurid spirit-thin webbed cross bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.