This little invisible string
lures me to you.
My conscious fighting
with my subconscious.

A sad opera of sorts.
A soldier with his head blown.
A china doll with detached arms.
None too eager for love.

Someone is crying,
there is a fire in our house.
No flames, nor embers,
only a cool smoldering.

Hired help arrives: a wooly sheep
retired from her usual duties
of jumping over fences,
or comforting us in her afterlife.

Somedays are so hot-
I suffer perpetual sunburn.
Voices of tiny kids, a guilty pyre-
making me sweep up our soot.