Wheeze.

The dark dropped early and the first chill came.
A gentle rocking mixed with heavy jars, flitting lights pushed away the diminished stars.
The wheeze had not stopped on the way to the smoke and I raise any man that says otherwise, for he knows not of sounds or sights, merely a bragger of lesser things.
Conkers in my pocket tell of lighter beings, but the train won’t stop rocking them from my brain.
As another land dies tiny fragments depart, leaving vessels and tombs filled to the rafters with art
A groan of a poem we’ll never quite know
I changed the rules you see.

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