It's blackened,
like the eyes
of the scavenging gulls.
It beats in
irregular patterns,
much like the native
upon the sacred drum.
And on slow mornings
it gives to pause.
Like the wanderer pauses
to look back across the
flames and at all that
has burned with the
Love and the
sun kissed days.
All that are now only
scares upon the
memory.
All so long ago.