A touch paper is lit and breathes life into lecherous flames
travelling the naked roots that one hundred years has aged; interlacing
memories carry flames from the floor.
Above, sleeping tendrils flare up and engulfed by a flickering hypnosis
are swept by the wind’s breath, that makes them sway in morbid rhythm
inside of a grasping, fateful embrace.
Times falls away in charred flakes; embers rain down from once writhe limbs.
Spindled, burnt fingers clutch at the breeze but can only sieve the cool air before
they are severed from grace.
Daylight’s cruel shades disrobe the blackened carcass still ablaze, still stood tall,
but with its life snuffed out. Too late, cascading heroes dance on dried lips
unable to revive or drown out the ferocious, embalming cloak of death and the weeping willow, without such a kiss, kneels proudly before falling; scorched, hurt and alone, to her feet.