This House is His

There is a house that was made in the lilt of a banjo's string

Now it lives in the silent hole that lies in the centre of a drum beat
In this house of grit and gravel

Hanging by a thread too weak to hold a thing as heavy as a name

Or hope

There lives a lynched waif
All twirls, wide eyed palms and thundering soles

She dances, in that room lit by the light of suns of bastard words and desperate men

From this place where candles shiver in fear of her circling fixed smile and and blazing eyes

The walls give up hope along with him and fall into the wells of his pouring throat

And he sings
And waits for death to die