Windswept ashes from the house that we grew up in,
Trickle down the mountain on the howl of the southwest wind.
And little sister with her ivory eyes,
Spinning, twisting in the fire flies.
It sounded in the summer,
One could hear it ring through spring.
As silent, distilled murmurs,
Talking about us endlessly.
Our houses hung as ashes,
As our chimney stayed to fight the flames.
But the kitchen window burning,
Was all that would remain.
Our photographs are curling,
Corners churning in on frames,
Overexposing all the moments,
We'd soon forget that day.
And suddenly we're flying,
In cigarettes across the sky.
We're burning to the filter,
Escaping as they softly sigh.
Just blame it on the meth head,
Just blame it on us mountain folk.
Our houses hung as ashes,
And on our lives I hope you've choked.
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