Sometimes you wonder why you wrote those letters,

In the dark of that stumble burning midnight flickers,

When all they were to be consigned to flames of disdain

When the heart poured spoil, burnt paper and ash in pain

Incinerated in frost fire feels so cold, lost to reason of hope and hold

These lines that I drew were the paths I would dream

The flames that you lit were a pyre that you impelled

The trance of my words lost to wilderness, erased echoes

In the winds of time, as this cold ash is blown away

Some cinders concealed, some sparks remain!


28th August