Felled by you,
a wooden loss-leader,
a lumberjacked and severed space, notching my dove tail hole, this chest.
A male crow, showing his under-blackness, like the steely girder of flight, constructed by and mangled together with a cold, barbaric ferociousness.
Eying the horizon, the wind a funeral pyre, like fingertips on a silky smoke of mindfulness.
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