Memoir of Ash

A bitter scent,

Something burning,

Rising up from the ashes,

There is still life.

It is not the inferno it was,

So tall compared to me,

It is now my size,

I am a spark of a human,

It is simply a spark.

In the last breath of daylight,

There is no sunset,

The clouds boiled over

Into an obstruction,

So all we have left,

Are the ashes.

The remains of the trees

Take flight at the slightest disturbance,

And catch onto the breezes,

Leaving only a memoir

In the air.

So I find their words,

And write them

On the inside of my skin.

Theirs is a language

Primitive in comparison

To my own,

Composed of snaps and pops

And the occasional whistle

Of blind heat.

This is where they come from,

Leaving no trace,

But the bodies of their own

That cannot drift free.

Now in this dry, flavorless June,

I can venture into the long grass,

And make my way back,

Bigger now,

To watch this dead world

Of ashes,

Scatter mutely on the wind.