The Burning of a Masterpiece

On the easel of my horizon Monet was painting an autumn twilight, but I watched as smoke gray fingers smeared his pastel and my visions wisp-ed away a god spoke of burning the testament of life, every single letter of every verse, now? they feather to ash on the breeze, I burnt them, I woke yester-year with a poet in residence, but today, today? I awoke the scribbler living on the nothing of me before each page passed over the flames and consumed in the reaching fingers of black, melting to mould each strip of my flesh, I close my eyes and feel the ridge of a word, a letter I allowed them to sear my palms, I brush caked salt from the corner of my mouth, as I handed each poem to a quick death, I read the Misery of each page that flares, those black fingers now curl black strips of my mantel, like scrapping paint flaccid but not broken, I pick at a piece of ash in hopes of piecing, a poet back together but Monet has left and I can only sketch in the charcoal with a god, whispering in my ear, that I must burn for nothing