ghost writing

Morning, A crystallized sky-line, glossy rivers and the shivering slumber of icy-pine needles by the lake. The inky tar and black blots of boat-oil, patchwork canals of fence mazes and the dull hum of tired farm machinery, old ugly metal buckets of porch-nails and beautiful relics of rust. 

The town, a stolen raft, flickering street lamps and ghosts, the wooden ladders, torch lanterns and death rattle of brittle winter leaves. Barren cold sidewalks and the lost umbrella of a coin-fountain thief. A burlap knapsack and window clover trinket, a Chimney Swift blends and blankets the crumbling spire, the acerbic wound of sadness and neglect, life and death. 

Daybreak to day end, empty silo, gunshot tin and the scarred shrapnel holes look like the strange black eyes of a veiled Cobra Lily, the dozing paint horses in the pasture, the unkempt tangle of British-Indian copse, a kudzu shrouded wheelbarrow full of rotten timber frames, a musky mausoleum of twigs and scattered bones of broken limbs, an archaic scythe buried by ageless red dirt and shore-clay, shy Castle-Oaks gazing about from the faint tendrils of fading sunlight, burnt-sepia portraits of flawless fake stage-actors and books and verses neatly encased in gospel-twine, the silent library of decapitated statue's and poorly written manuscripts concerning the political theater and scent of wet cedar, the kitchen of arbitrary blacks and pale-checkered floor, a small milk puddle from a broken glass pitcher.

City of silken madness, melting nightfall and sunrise rain, a cylinder of patterns and pious and pallid angels, the scape and nape of your neck, French architecture and caustic rogue pavement, white-pearlescent stone and charred marble rock, the sinister guillotine and smooth barely bruised texture of the brick bulwark, the bleak prison on the hill, the bastion of classical loneliness and aged cinematic veranda. The vacant hotel and embassy knots of exposed blood-roots and blue-demure, a battalion with no tanks taking rest, makeshift army-cots and estranged tents, sewing angry fabric for old holes, green soldiers smoking cigarettes and talking loudly, a rasp fist-fight and barbaric yawp from an inquisitive citizen-gnome. The Capital Bank and police on patrol, a lone drunk with a bottle of urine as his only companion, a memory of a dog, long gone, dead and buried in a cemetery that is no longer there, lavender petals on the water, an orchard of frozen flowers and permanent ache in the hollow bark of his open chest.