Waking A Saint
those old ghosts
still slip beneath my skin,
suck warmth from my blood,
marrow from my bones
i vomit,
i shit,
i spit
shake again and again,
trying to break their will
to wander my thoughts
where they undermine my memories
of a sun too swollen to set,
that still sheds light upon a heart
beating back specters of sadness
lurking in the shadows of a soul,
warming blue hands caught in the grip
of a world without hope still haunting
the skeletal remains of a broken
but still breathing man expelling
demons through the condensation
of his breath upon cold ghosts,
waking a saint to hold the flame
of his spirit up in the face of their dead wind
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