Dead Again

There you go, on bony feet behind the temple, under and over the leaves. A conflagration of thorns like Herzog, hands like lumps of living ice tucked into the deep mouths of pocket, turning about, clenching keys or coins, or both. Looking at fingers red raw, a law unto yourself. Thinking of demons sitting on the shelf, an incubus made of iron sitting on my chest or a horse's breath from a coin.

Two dogs, alike only in appearance and density of destiny. I wanted to be them. I loathe myself.