inside display of broken wings so smooth porcelain face cracks and flakes away turns pulse flying down telephone lines to the pictures on your wall burning on contact and the branches were stripped under winters numb with the breath that was the fire burning through the room and we won’t come back under back drop of mountains above pastels in flames that crawl up time wont stop for loss it hits the back seat tearing fabric from the lines till the clouds some to swallow the night leaving less piled on the floor this one hands you the all we fall