I am the aching lumber of sore lungs
A thick sigh in the winter,
steam evaporating like thoughts of the future

Putrid and petrified,
I am the past
I am the burdened creak of knocking knees

A ghost tied to a present that will not pass
looking over for
answers from the morning star

I am the Iris wide with sun
Light gleaming glossy
off the burnt orange horizon where
God finds me buried
above the mountain