Slow Fall Through Quicksand

Woke up this morning with blood on my hands. Blood as red as the fire that burns these lands. And its not the thought of what created these wounds, but the thought that my fall will not end soon. Like a shriveled rose, lost to the wind, is my body to decompose and then become pinned. For the ones that are mourning, bury me slowly. While saying goodbyes, in their dark, truthful beauty. So there is beauty in my slow fall through quicksand. Not all the world has burned, and that i find grand. For this morning i woke with blood on my hands, only to wash away the flames and start again.