By brian francis
Where chimneys rise above the ash
to stand in ordered rows,
where fire’s dance engulfed the homes
destroying all one owns.
Where tears shed, streak and flow,
ashen mascara on the face.
Images enchant, playing in the mind
of another time in this place.
Trees who once bore crowns of leaves
a home to squirrels and birds;
only tortured twisted skeletons remain,
crying wind, the only thing heard.
in ashen heaps, sorted for some pearls
Everything stained by fires touch,
loving hands grasp at memories inspired
by the loss of so, so very much.
The rising odor that pervades it all
a smell like that of Hades’ gates.
The sullen mood, shoulders slumped,
the lost souls clinging to their mates.
The smolder burns and chokes the throat,
words can not seem to be found.
A lifetime lost to the raging flames
drift in ashes dancing on the ground.
Copyright ©2020 brian francis