Inside display of broken wings    So smooth    Porcelain face cracks and flakes away    Turns pulse    Flying down telephone lines to the pictures on your wall Burning on contact    And the branches were stripped under    Winters numb with the breath that was the fire    Burning through the room    And we won’t come back under    Back drop of mountains    Above pastels    In flames that crawl up   Time wont stop for loss    It hits the back seat    Tearing fabric from the lines till the clouds come    To swallow the night    Leaving less piled on the floor   This one hands you the all we fall