I sit, heart still, not beating,
A lone soul amongst my own memories,
Which plaster the walls, a putrid stain.
Through the fog of night,
I hear her cries, silent tears of crystal,
Falling to the padded floors, shattering.
Through the crackle of the fire,
I hear her laughter,
A once pretty sound, gone sharp and raw.
Staring aimlessly into my own palms,
Her voice haunts me, has haunted for so long,
So I reach but a single hand to the fire.
Watching the tongues of the flame,
Lick my open flesh,
I smile when the searing begins.
Then fall from my chair,
Crawling to their sound, their loud cackle driving her memory away.
From the flames I rob a charcoaled log,
That which I toss, and another,
Though when the smoke and flame surrounds I know,
I must've been missed when they came to lock her up.