I question the efficiency of lungs to displace this

dirge of a blackwater slough, I set backfires and
draw them into me, candles burn and obscure
heaven, something anaerobic still struggles.

The surface is wracked where your hands dig,

all the crosses quicksilver, the gems flake, and the
only keys are broken. I wonder if the bodies are
where I buried them. There is some part of us
that still hears the subsonic sobs. Or is it feel.
At what age are the symptoms lost.

It’s a common thread, pull it. Don’t worry

I’ll lick your fingers clean.

.