The burns fade in,
Forming scars under the skin.
Scars so bold they burst,
A cacophany of shrill screams scratch softly,
Ever so softly,
At the thin skin of my inner dulcimer.
"Why?" he shouts,
"When the fire is set and the ashes,
That dark grey matter of life itself consoled,
You do not rummage through the spoils of the spill!"