There are times where the connections in my head make sense.
There are times where you will just have to go with it.
Joan Didion dreams of a floating turbine hovering
spinning wildly over a prairie expanse
Her frail hands are reaching into the spinning blades
claw-like her tips bending everything backwards
In the grave yard in Auvillar the oldest crypts are breaking
piles of dust and pebbles
The newest stands open a flame on a candle shaking
This is where a rotting hand rises fist from the earth and wormy
where a skull with one eye crawls meanly from a hole in the ground
This is where they pick up tools and set out into the world to reclaim
where fires start and blood becomes currency
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