He watches a life burn down to dusty ash
From a tiny, yellow gas flame
That lights the cigarette in his hand
That churns out words from his troubled brain.
A writer's violence hides, not in his eyes,
But in angry, quivering palms that trace
A venomous, untidy, familiar scrawl
Reducing her complexity to scribbles on a page.
Though he mourns the memories of happier days
He feeds it all to his carnage.
Because our hands often betray
What doesn't reach our face, that which we'd rather not say.
