when your views on life clash
like lightening to mighty tree trunks
breaking open decades of days you've prayed
your hardest to forget
they are now burning cinders of lined bark
turned to ash
now to be stored in yet another urn
marking the tragic death of yet another
forsaken part of your wilting life
and what else can you do but cry
little puddles of light
to extinguish the heat of the dying fire
trying to distinguish between
the smell of burning wood
and your fruitless anguish