Sunday word hunter,  Varios

Behind barracks

The sky has become sorta white.
And it doesn’t matter how bright the stars.
My heart can’t beat to their sight.
Moon light?
Rose scent?
My nose is dead.
The touch of a lad?
I’m numb to fail.
Rise and rise,
The smoke.
Some exiled name from remain,
Cause there were records of none.
Burnt in the same cage of demise.
Cinders behind.
Without a teeth brush or shoe to put behind glass.

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