The house...is wrapped in disrepair...

It is mechanical.

The normal vernacular it circulates...the wires...

won't burn out.

I see more burn outs in my days that I've come around.

The wind is cold, wrapped in a disappearing silence

Walk away to burn out once more

Keep it circulating, it won't ever change.

It's a vernacular...it wires me down

Cold! Warm! Come crisp as you are!

Burn out. Cold.

Circulate the vernacular with the cold wires that wind you down, burden me...

I see the ghost in you, white as ever. Fading.

It isn't a surprise, it's a burn out I'm told. Too cold to be retold.

It's still cold, and I'm retelling the same old story.

Maybe I'm the burn out, and you're the crisped wire that I carry the burden of?

Or is it that you're the burn out, who is cold and I carry all the burdens of?

No matter.

It's a circulating wire through the vernacular that is cold and a burn out that I shall forever carry the burden of.

I was once the one who told the story of the cold hearted and how it circulated through the lives who couldn't live up.

Maybe I am just there. Maybe..that's the way I'll be seen.

No! I'll be the story teller to change the heart of all story tellers and of the warm hearted.

Warm and cold, a burn out is. A burn out is once warm, once cold, circulating in the life that couldn't escape the vernacular of....


questioning the sun and the moon...