Burial by Hans Watkins

Gutted hardware lines the near dark stairwell.

Forgive me

I inspect the exit wounds,

Shedding light upon the innards of these

useless machines.

 

A wayfaring stranger on a night train

is rendered useless.

Endorphins fading,

prayers pirated

by a feral witch child called hope.

 

Distant lights flicker in a broken home.

It rains all night.

I etch the word “Burial”

upon my headboard.

Nearly dark, I dare the distant lights to fade.