And in the ever-growing distance,
the last husk of love lays
beneath
a glaze of frost.
The fire burned long, but slow.
In time, it smoldered, with ribbons of fire
still lacing the entrails,
still bright against the night sky.
The fragrance turned to stench,
but the winds of autumn cleared the air.
In time, I stopped turning back to look.
In time, I stopped searching.
In time, I became the husk,
dried, imperfect, indifferent to
the pending blade of harvest.
But it’s quiet here, and sometimes
loneliness sits next to me,
and sings her little songs of
how nice it could be.
But I’m tired now, and
the sound of another voice
in my space would prove
too intrusive, too expectant,
and redistribute long set boundaries,
or rebuild long standing walls.
I’ll let the silence reign, and the
solitude ring.
And other times, I wonder
if there are any more
embers
left beneath the pyre,
protected
from the
frost.
is any ember left in the pyre,
protected
from the
frost.
Beyond Panic 