You are the parched fields surrendered to fire,
the entwined trundles
of all that you've thought - gone
to flare. Warmth bleeding
from the desperate melody
still thriving inside your body,
its longing
still beating in waves above you,
as if the blue was holding
your last breath.
And hope is missing
somewhere looking
through the smoulder
thinking what a waste it is
to miss this,
to send it all back
into the earth-cindered,
with all of the wrath
we were scared stiff
to touch, to see
where it once was fold
after fold of anticipation,
with roughness
and countenance
like sallow grain,
and never leaving, - never growing old.
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