Matthew was older.
His why solidified while.
Her's crossed her feet as mist.
Black and typical in a village.
Burnt cold by lives unreturned.
His father died from carried wounds.
Mother by disease, endless fever.
That life as a boy eagerly hearted.
Courageous with lungs of infinite capacity.
He'd breathe for hours at full speed.
His heart never undone.
His father's axe, always smiling.
Even through brown and off white
It passed through for hours on its way to him
And his mother in happier days.
But ghosts would hold here,
Never letting go, no matter how loving he,
Had to go on so.
He crushed them between his eyes.
Leaving the past to the dead.