Now I extract with tweezers from my flesh
the silver splinters of our common past,
unoxidized sharp memories still fresh,
which left would fester like a question asked
but never answered. Isn't it absurd
how we wound each other with joyous shards
of love's black shrapnel: how passion burns,
yet in remembering turns to gangrene ash?

To be a writer
Is to burn with words,
tiny living birds risen from our ash and dust, because we must.
We take a part of ourselves and give so that we can live and fly and fill the smoky amber coloured sky with wings,
although we know not why.