Cinders To Ash – It’s Cold In Here.

She stood hair of scarlet
a beacon on that lonely hillside.
Beneath the tilt of clouds,
more black than grey.
Silent, void in all, her qualities.
Her derelict stance
made me stop – to glance.
In openness
I appealed
If one falls; if
What then?

Her body faltered –
China pale, descending petals
kissing cold, the granite of whitest
Who will light me a candle
on this barren night?
For in this bittersweet reek of living alone
I am to come undone.
My deceits have left me all mislaid
I battled hard those disliked
tendrils of ache.
Willed to purge them with my bile
Yet– should I hold my self
in tainted censure –

Are men not born ill-fated; weak
so open to persuasion.
Should, lacklustre climates;
gather about our feet.
Then surely, we can seek out
that warmth, so absent from the hearth.
May, well my love, have blazed
her hair of red.
Alas, for me; it never seemed
to warm our bed…

Poppy ~xx~


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