Each stroke of my charcoal pencil, Scraping against paper, Scratched out yet another scar Masking my feelings As they bled on paper- Black rivers running scarlet, And locked it there, A dam brimming Unleashed, Wiped off, in a brave Attempt to never Be uncovered again, Sunken Under alluvium.
I’m thinking all my charcoal thoughts— Scorching on my mind— I’m thinking all my crumbly words Are worth the dark’s dull time I sit here in the dark And watch the embers burn The feelings of the faces here Mean nothing in the urn. I sit against cold tiles, Hiding in the dark The fire burns me inside out I’m alone, I’m hurt. I sit deep in the fire I have no more bones to give All my blood is boiling And my eyes have all but caved I sit here in the fire And think my charcoal thoughts I want nothing else to do With anything but dust. Burn the legs and up the arms I’m done with walking free Burn the brain, the heart, the soul I retire to the dream.
The graphite colored smoke, that rose from your charcoal covered body, in billows of silver. The ferocious orange and yellow flames, that dance at the thought of bringing your bones into the sun. The smell. Sandalwood and gasoline.