flat.fish.flesh

And how does this flame do? Tell how does it feel to
flicker and flutter away.
Is that how you burn you? What fuels are consumed due
to firing your engines all day?

Would you rather I pickled your arse into fossil?
Refound on the shore underfoot.
So salted and sugared you rise from the pebble
to freshen this phrase, so well put.

The petrified whisper, whilst pleasing the breeze,
still wonders what raised it for more.
For sure it’s right back here, recited with ease,
as bright as the daylight before.

Though nitrates neglected are as lost as bells rung
and voices won’t stay waiting here
still one heart transmuted, preserved for the tongue,
shall chime for new ears every year.

Snuffed out before you got lit,
in the harvest that happens at home.
Dead end to a story not writ.
Cropped fleece that some fingers still comb.

Ripped raw for the tailor to peel
your parts to cut coats for a world
that you did not taste, smell or feel.
So rudely from her you unfurled.

You could have run freely and far,
in the seasons of sunrise and gold,
on turf beneath beaming daystar,
breathed on till you found yourself old.

Here’s cheers to the wake of a thing,
done in before he got out,
for warmth that he still will bring.
Raise song or at least a good shout.