Mortal Recoil

There is no passing through this
There is no passing through this
there is a seven year old night waiting
while the odds come and stay
as drain seeps out the lava
and bang my doors like a day
a day that is done to death
throbbing in the middle of my palm
I have been caught staring at it
out, out, out are all the lights
out all, in some rain sucking green ground
i don't know the sound
but it flaps its wings through the invisible woe
crawling shapes in my scenic solitude
through solid ebony
above serpents of colored fires
fruit trees yes fruit trees
no flies and no original slaves
i can only afford those stamps now
i write to you, hence
three hours later from where I am
blow the brief candles
its an end to a lot of pain
its an end to a lot more.