Involuntary Inhalations

Another broken summer;

another dream about a storm.

A colder wind

with every quicker mile –

a wraith screaming

sweet staccato

like shovels shattering

porcelain.

All the poetry

has wolves in it;

gusts of wind

like heart arrhythmias.

All the wolves

have poetry in them;

dreaming

like your brain

is still buffering.

If only the world

were sepia toned…

Ethereally sad

and gothic

and cold

and dreary

something nostalgically

depressing

in dead sepia.