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Smote
Fire had taken his throat;
each word equated to smoke,
and people ran in a gasping fan
to catch their breath.
Old basso he had known
was stirred Hell's blowing wind;
it carved the cliffs in passing
towards the depth.
Eyes embossed in sand
with glass that shed like tears and
fell to land below. Broken;
scattered 'cross and bled.
There he sat alone;
rasping vagrant symbols
that spelled a word like 'home':
one that few would know.
Atmospheric notes
that held a fragment soul of his
would shimmer in the setting
sun as it disappeared.
Oxygen would steal
away and he'd be but
a wisp, gasping as his form decays;
no smoke upon his lips.
