Weary and listless it haunts the fields where it was once wild and free

Burning poppies and lovers all the same

You kept some of the ash didn't you?

In that box in the attic where you wept for a week

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What's it like

being the worst person in the room

You didn't tell them did you

that you're leaving so soon

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A breeze whips a field of wheat into undulating waves, softly caressing the still landscape with the rise and fall of grass. The twilight here is not as consuming as within the town but still envelops the surrounding hills in a beckoning blackness that gently kisses the stark edges of the tilled field. A scream pierces the rustle of grass followed by wails and gasps of breath between each guttural shriek. A figure arches its back as it thrashes its head in desperate cries that you'd understand if only you had listened back then. The field erupts in flames of neon tubing, glass popping and shattering as the red lights glow white hot and erupt in an orchestra of pained screeching. Cocooned in fire, It turns suddenly to look at you, pointing to an overgrown path leading from the flames. Of course it helps you.

It always has.

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