Gray Hill

It's all but
bones in the fray
a puppeteer with cut strings  
Nooses and skeletons  
telling stories
colors can't describe  
in the heat of things
 
All the passion is poison rotten out of an apple born from a tree that is crooked and doesn't ever admit that it's twisting  
and screaming  
 
It's all a wolf in the bray.
A winter sky ;
Laying bare under the stars  
but not sleeping.  
 
Metal roofs slammed with thick rain.