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I am the ashes when your fire goes through me I am the scorched ground dreaming of flames I am the burning huntress bathing in the firestorm my gods take my hands to turn my skin into liquid gold my hair - the dust on the wind my eyes blazing gaping mouth filled with melted iron witchlight in my heart I am the ashes when my gods enter my soul filling me with black cinder turning me into embers

Some days, you get the blues, (for no particular reason) merely to quantify your happiness levels on the other days. I wish I didn't think on you (in the ways of missing limbs and tooth-aches) in spinning conjunctions of whimsy where you were clean and I was less (in the) dark. You didn’t have to look me in the eye, Didn’t have to lie, In the could have, should have, would have way Of every other sidewinder who slithers And slips from one tongue to another. You could have stayed… Your self-preservation tactics Outweighed my means. “Could you be any more perfect?” I cocked a half-knowing grin. “Apparently,” I said in the denseness of solitary. My knowing mind outweighs my staying grace. Should I have clipped your wings, falcon? Your jesses are the ties that bind me now. My heart was set to take flight, unhooded, And free at last, I would have cried. These hallow bones are broken. My keen-eyed gaze; stayed. “I’ll never forget you.” But oh… I wish you would… I hear you thinking on