Rust.

A whiteness in the sky, I saw fire, a glimpse of something still. Pierced my flag in the heart of the hill. So as I walked along things began to fall in places. I remember her, how one could yearn the lowly faces. Exactly where the patterns made me blind. There is no soft corner, no regret and nothing to trouble my blissful mind.

Her face, she tells of a lazy noon. Her lovely smell, the pink hue. 

With just a bullet to run. 

I will find one someday, a sweet tooth with a gun.