Burnt air tastes of ash and smoke.
Specks of blackened lined paper rise up
On a sweeping current into the sky.
I watch myself burn.
One sliver at a time.
Orange flames flick and lick
The underside of my palms.
Death is near, I say. I can feel it.
Sorrow swelling and swaying,
I succumb, believing the climb upward
Now steadily descends, aging grey and lifeless.
Darkness permeates, urging me to run, to hide,
To find that which is never found.
The guarantee.
The demand.
My desire to alchemize that which
is not mine spits and pitches me backward.
I must abdicate my track before the flames
annihilate and burnt air is all I breathe.
Image Source: Pexels
Weathered Well 