Smoke Pony

Twister return this house that hill without pony she swills outside the chamber in the crowd. They smite her house-fire to the foundation with red scabbed finger-bones, helmet gleam above that house-fire or finger-bones, higher above her velveteen widow moan. Else a wind-chime ain't breezy, An acrid chimney brick then twists slightly crumbly. Trolls toll that bell outside a bellows erect under a cape, her jagged fallen aerials spanning through faint smog- disavowed bowstrings will spring from anger or her pony from her hill.