I cannot quite recall where I was
when the great flash came, but
I remember the way we dropped
to our knees, buried our faces
in the dirt, prostrated ourselves
before the god of destruction.
When we arose, we saw that
the mountains themselves
were on fire.
I washed myself without looking down,
and when I cleared the steam from the mirror,
I could see that my face had been burned away.
When the fog returned to the surface, I became
beautiful once more. I drew patterns on it
with my finger, carved glyphs
made out of weeping sores
into my own nebulous reflection.
Soon, I awoke, then awoke
again, to find myself once more
smooth and whole as a river stone.
There was blood in my shoes
but I wore them anyway.