And then we fan the flames to such a height, they glow bright, acridity burning our eyes.
But so easily we forget the reasons as to why; we, we are stuck blind.
Still we chuck embers, blow hot the coals. We throw torches unto tattered cloth, we empty oil unto souls.
We inhale the rising tarry smoke, and oh how we choke.
And burn all the more.
For in that one moment as the fumes flocculate - coalesce - we cultivate this pretend hate; we destroy ourselves to sate the proclivity to agitate.
But as the cloying oil seeps into our cores; as we dig through skin to reach the bones; I wonder when, through tearing, we'll grasp our slickened souls?
And if then, will we find the lucency we've lost; the clarity we threw to feed the roaring flames?
Because the fire has raged and left only dying light. And ashes cannot be reborn into mankind, if belief has stuttered and already died.
So tell me how will I preserve my ashes tonight?
Please, I need to.
Copyright © Jane Doe | Year Posted 2016