cubistpoet

Dust (aka The End of Intentions)

Fighting fire with fire never will rebuild shattered fragments of a
mirror to a home-built past that never looked like the picture in the
catalog anyway. It's all serial numbers etched into bones that only charr
and never get consumed, and the soul is running short on oxygen tanks. Too
many more backdrafts could kill it or at least sever it from the body,
leaving it to drift aimlessly and wonder why it didn't dial 9-1-1 earlier
when there was still a chance to allowed spotted-dogs and cherry red hats
to roam freely through the halls of burnt but still standing walls.

I'm letting go of my fire, trading it in for a pile of ashes. Maybe I can
read the stars in the language of soot and paint an ashen picture of
tommorows with black clouds portenting the rain of recovery and regrowth.
Corn plants swelling and smiling beneath loose, burnt soil. Consider my
painting a post-modern fertility dance, an artistic ritual of
revitalization.