Claftiere
Red Ashe fills his Lungs,
Coating the dry walls of his esophagus,
Pulling them together,
His slender fingers marred by spots of white,
Clutch helplessly as thick colour bones,
With every breath drawn,
His shoulders tighten painfully,
Copper spilling over broad tongue,
Tinted pink,
The Ligaments found there,
Act as a clasp,
Locking his jaw shut,
Stretching,
As,
Balls of Iron fill the spaces above his tongue,
The weight of which sits,
Crushing and hot,
A wail thicker than molasses,
Pulverizing pallid red lips,
Dripping heavily down his front,
abandoning,
Trails of charred flesh,
and,
Abraded bone,
in Its wake.
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