Poe et here

ASHES

Now another torture,

Greater than the first…

Will ashes burn??

I see my pile, neatly swept

In the center of an empty bedroom floor,

Surrounded by so much space.

A summer breeze sneaks under the door

Lapping at the edges of the grey heap.

Some fragile flakes flutter upward,

The remains shudder a collective sigh,

Too deep for words,

Too dry for tears,

Too quiet for almost any sound at all,

Sit lightly and heavily on the cold wood.

I remember when the ashes had substance,

Movement and life, smiles and laughter,

All manner of good will.

Yes, I remember.

Do those sparkling green eyes

Still behold this mound of disarticulate mud?

The lips are both wondrous and dangerous.

Wondrous at the velvet caresses on my former self,

Dangerous that they hold the very breath

That can blow these ashes

Into a cloud of dismembered passions.

I cringe.

I am waiting….for a kiss….or an exhalation

I cringe

And hope.