There, in an envelope that lies in a crest of embers, resides my heart; decomposing in all its faithlessness and its well-intentioned lies. Whereas the paper trust wears thinner, still, fraying until amber-ringed holes bear the burdens of ash. One can see where it has been burned through.
My soul, a limb of yule, is almost at the end of its feverish flickering; for even the evergreens are not green forever. Behind the arrogant sway and the violent thrash of their needles, they all know that even as the sap slides silently down their sides with every piecing wound they recieve in their proud stance, they are reaching a darker shade. And there is me; fresh green of youth but a memory on the tongue. Look at me; my rings are browning.
My mind casts shadows on the fleeting light, forming faltering figures where these is no one. Even as the inverse of incandescence, I find no solace; there is no longer any recognition in these useless reminescences. I can hardly remember the last time that there was.
Something in me is fading.
A single blow: the log against the carcass.
(xx.Across the cheek. Red flesh; lucid tears.xx)
A single breath: the cold amongst the ash.
(xx.Make a wish. Awe made of moonlight; faith made of stars.xx)
The fire is dying.