Fire the panzer eight times in a
salute to the furtive runaway already halfway gone
dead or buried. This is their song
gravel throat let it burst out into the everlasting light of combusting
star-spangled space. Leave your print in the news so we may read up on
it under dimmed skies of a magenta coloration.
Fire the ovens eight times in a
send-off to decay already set in motion
dead or buried. This is their movie
hellish Christmas trees flashing across the silver glass that bursts
airheaded genies. Leave your print in clay so we may preserve what
treaded here under the holy ink-shroud.
Fire the warnings eight times in a
red alert we had been blind to sense
dead or buried. This is their biography
eight years in time without their white-cuffed black coat to warm
empty pillowcases. Leave your pain for us to bare as you focus
on the weightless curiosity of the lustrous horizon.
Fire the weaver eight times in a
protest to hope dreamt of in vain
dead or buried. This is their portrait
seven years of bad luck twisting the singed canvas to ignite
jagged comforters. Leave your fur in plastic bags so we may touch you here
while you journey in the vertigo of cosmic bliss.
Fire the engines up eight times in a
goodbye to the corporeal and soon to ash
dead and buried. This is their memory
almost tangible but better left to itself to warm
less than a whole. You have left all you can so we leave you with this
while you nap among the unknown.