The rafters cracked like winter ice beneath a heavy boot.
The garden turns to bitter ash and rots down to the root.
The porch is just a skeleton of timber and of soot.
The life she built is scattered now—
a gray and blackened foot.
I pull the heavy bolt back on my own oak-hardened door.
I offer her the kitchen chair, the safety of my floor.
We sit within the yellow light while rain begins to beat.
The ghosts of every wooden beam are lying in the street.
The smell of wet wool fills the hall, a damp and heavy scent.
Her shoulders slump beneath the weight of every dollar spent.
I pour the whiskey thick and dark within a heavy glass.
We watch the silhouettes of all the local shadows pass.
The woman’s roof is open to the weeping of the sky.
We don’t speak of the tragedy or offer up a lie.
I strip the mud from off her boots with hands knowing the grime.
I’ll give her every second of my own remaining time.
I saw her clawing the front porch with fingernails of lead
while every memory she owned was burning in its bed.
Forget the preachy talk of fate—it’s just a godless mess,
a sudden strike of lightning in a world of raw distress.
She’s staying here within the dry, away from all the rain,
until we find a way to kill the localized sharp pain.
The world is cold and jagged but the fire starts to rise.
I see the smoke of everything reflected in her eyes.
The walls we build are paper when the lightning starts to strike.
But I will be the heavy weight, the anchor and the spike.
We’ll hold the line against the dark until the morning light.
I’ll keep the vigil here with you throughout the fucking night.