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"O for a muse of fire..."
Henry V.  ~  Prologue
William Shakespeare
~

I am not sure what went first.
I see only charred remains
of what was,
layers of ashes strewn about.
I clutch the warmth of the
last flame,
and walk away.

The desolation is gray,
yet giving me a strange sensation
Of grief and freedom,
a sundry blend that tends
To inebriate.
I gather pieces of the residue
and sing a new song,
Ashes to ashes

I know I loved you, though
we walked down paths
where drought had taken
its toll,
where desire was ripe.
I just never knew you
Liked to play with matches.