There is a funeral pyre
that I built as I walk.
A parade of orange flames
down the street,
blue centers lapping like
still trying to get my attention.
But I left my long ago heart in that red hot
and I let that ache burn
with the a wooden residue
that lies thick on
all my clothes
and the tongue where
I kissed you.
I left the love, I left the lover
but, Oh! the embers wear me round my neck like a necklace glisten in the sun
and ashes keep repeating in the cyclone of the wind about the fire.
I lit a break,
Struck a match to patch the hole.
And everywhere I go I am the mourner and the deceased.
Outliving the unlivable after all.
— The End —