This chapbook is dedicated to Ashes_Twisted. After reading her poem, Brushing Off Embers, I was enormously moved and found the love gone wrong and off theme exceptionally entertwined in the title, superbly executed with the imagery. The consistency of the construct used to create the artwork was exceptional. Thanks you Ashes_Twisted for letting me use lines from the poem for titles in the chapbook. Let this serve as notice for permission to use the lines.
A Dying Zeal
Conflagration to the sky
a dying love goes drifting upward
like the reverse of snow falling
or white ashes twisting
on a cold summer night.
You are consumed by fire,
So much energy released
we have ceased
No phoenix will rise from this,
no mythical rememberance
or dream. It seems there
is no zest or zeal left.
I am touched by the fames.
Dancing on winds, tossed
on breezes that ignore you
as nothing. Hot with old
passions, memories fading
Cinders Are Flying, My Eyes Are Burning
It is not as if my eyes
have never been singed before
the demon of fire owned too much
desire. Lies and other women
are real things. Deceiving
is now believed. Such pain you
wielded and conceived.
Why can I not banish lit candles
from seeing? First a spark in the eye,
now a fire raging coming down and down
like rain, your ashes burning, drifting,
turning, like embers fading.
Brushing Away Embers
Here we go again, walking
under volcanoes, thinking about
nuclear blasts of the heart
and what comes after. Footprints
in the chared tree boughs left
as ashes turned to bereft dust.
Must find a way to begin again
Ashed and covered with silt
from the soot brushed away
by a hand with no redemption
the assumption waning,
we used to be fire resistent
wood. Should I remember
three-quarters burned char?
You are embers on the wind.
I am ashes rekindling.
Nothing But A Stranger
Leaving a shore with the treeline
burning, the pine cones falling like
pebbles from a flaming forest. You
started the heat with flint and
design to remind the ashes
you passed this way. Like one fired
ash in a midnight sky, I cry gleefully
as you die.
I, the phoenix, purged from the
embers, emerge like new feathers
renewed forever. Execution guaranteed
by a cold sky decision. Good night
executed with poetic precision.
Quoteth the raven, with permission.
Gazing the hot horizon, smoke rising,
you live briefly now among them. Gone
like smoke, dissolved by free air. Poe
had you in mind when he said,
A Spark Against The Dark.
Like a mote in the eye
hurting like a nuisence phantom
out of reach, waiting to be
cried out and forgotten.
You go besotten as wet soot
in a chimney gone rotten.
Dead embers are your lot, hun.
On a no moon night, you
ascend outlined by fire
accompanied by heat devils
at midnight, or a few minutes
before. A ghost, once alive
merely seen from the corner
of vision, but looked upon
you vanish like a spark up
from the source to become
nullified dark. From the ground
Pacified, I watch your ending.
I ran faster, the flames
were my friend. You were
not as fast as you pretended,
drifted, faultered, then burned.
I did not strike the match
or rub sticks for your demise.
You were the agent of chaos
and surrender. Your eyes saw
the ember's glow beneath you,
fading Knight. See what remains
of brilliant light, as you are
swept into a no street lit
starless height, beyond my
Dusting Off The Memories
For this I use my magic duster
grip it tightly in both hands
to clear you out, like a lingering
cobweb. Ashes to ashes, please
leave quickly, waltzing among these
swirling dust motes heading
for the door.
The tabletop was my skin
and I took cloth to your ashes
and flicked you with my wrist. Suddenly,
you were gone, captured by snares
bound for the dust bin. Evermore.
A new door opens and the dirt
is sucked out, unable to return
you are best left spurned. I wish
for new terrain, new soil to plant
my heart in and let grow. Dust
to dust, that's you.