By Brenna Crocker
Nameless creature, there are no coins for your eyes.
Smoke-blind and crawling through the mud,
you are no more a human than the animal beside you.
When ash falls from the sky like snow
your red lips open to collect it,
to taste the burning conifers pool at the well of your tongue.
Your air fills the muted chamber of steel collisions,
of hoof-beats and crackling fire.
The bearded vulture with his rusty throat
will feast on you -
No face, no number, no name,
a collection of bones and flesh.
December descends in the drained-blood sky.
There are no pennies for your soul.