and the ashes were devoid of any secrecy,
of any deeper meaning she sought,
but did not find and when they blew away on the wind,
they painted her demons,
on the streets and trees,
and bees so that they could sting her,
over and over,
until they all died,
from their service to the queen.

the watermelons screamed when,
barefoot she walked among the dirt,
particles of forever
forgotten in the blur that is a hard day's work,
and the angel it told her,
to watch for thorns because they would hurt,
but all the venom from the stings had made her numb.

And so she walked, barefoot and dumb,
without knowledge of her destination,
and without questioning the direction
that her misaligned feet led her,
over anthills of angry truth
past feilds of babies with their grape juice,
and sour faces,

and silently still, she froze at the edge,
at the end,
and she wished only for the bees,
she cursed the wind, and the ashes and,
the ants, and took the last step into oblivion,
and when she reached the bottom,
she burned and started again.