Inside, bitter pill, writing is supposed to be cathartic and the rusted metal door you open leads to a crypt, a chilled place where the window dust has millions and billions of fragmented diamonds growing in your chest. Light lays sick over the fields and shadows dance on the ceiling, a cask of cognac and furrowed brow of a laughing mummy, the mournful orchards of Jaemor Farms, a fat pumpkin patch and how strawberries are rubbed on the skin in summer, a white-hot sea of names in the Book of Life.
Jars and urns are prisons to hold spirits, past the Paint Horse Farm, the pint-sized pea-gravel and purple azalea, a portrait of a basement crematory the color of Bay horses, a bright single ray of sunshine spikes through a broken pane of crying glass, begging angels in a Father's sky, hollow cheek in the valley of suffering, abandoned peaks and lost laurel slivers by an angry cemetery in a borrowed car, the murky, reddish brown afterglow, puddles of spilled milk turn to bone, the dank stomach and sour black-bowels of the house screaming in silence.
Outside, suicidal lovers hang stoically among the Sycamore, disfigured children lay dead among the tired swarms of lighthouse flickering-fireflies, frail sunken ships in the grass verges, a stolen feather floating down, the golden and unique filly that no fence can hold, a stubborn gray mare that bristles at the sight, a regal war-horse decorated in a lavish rain sheet, the cellar door and subsequent phonaesthetics of saying it aloud, the luxuriant overlook and leopard-like cloud pasture of Clermont, a paradise of pastures that blot out the horizon.