this place

rolling down. no, spiraling-
take your candles and your words
and that thing
above you.
i've got my own, and they are
warm, special, mine.

i hit my head on the floor
on the way up.
that's how low i was,
lost in silent sound like
civil war heroes mashed up
with the tall grass.
but the rights ones had the
two-thirds majority this time,
and now clouds are
everything.
and life is beautiful.

i'm alright, really.
i bleed ghost blood, seeping scars.
i hope for love and
please, let me leave.
this place is not my own.