Vodka Pyre

`What would you call the lovers? lovers after all,

No loose names but she was called Natasha of the village,

Getting drunk on the vodka pyre was a roofless world,

the lovers would dump cigarettes into their mouths as,

tar would burn the pyre of love echoes for ill gotten hearts,

They would wait in the open and a studio for the walker,

who would chase the love of his life on the vodka pyre,

Drinking  and loosing a part of self to fire in reflections,

indeed is a bold move till his love broiled like sunlight on the hot tin-roof,

There is a dead monkey for the ghouls of winter,

Drinking Vodka with a potato tart while snow languished,

in the headquarters of Nazis running through Petersburg,

He would’t spare the Nazi girl on Vodka Pyre, an oath to,

be with her through yes walking, walking, walking,

till she gave up fumes of fair cheeks reddening,

like turnips under the dead winter  lit her thought,

once gain on the Vodka pyre, drunk  on the sly he stalked her.



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