There is something, a more perfect flame Born of the cold of its self-destructive Same As all fire in every iteration. Why does it consume, a being therefrom Ash, budding in envy and infantile, Itself? Where shall it return? Tragedies In waves and yet Iām so affixed To those weeping, weeping lost Amidst themselves, wanting completeness Or one leaf to survive them Through the Spring. Here, amidst The tragedies, red-eyed, disheveled And hoping for rebirth. I will stand here, bury it in earth.