Ficly

Morals

The angry heat of fire
Seeped right to the heart
Of the house
It’s angles sagging,
Groaning under invisible
Burdens
And with a sigh the roof
Buckles
A crack like that of a whip
The fire white hot crushing fingers.
My fingers.

The fire could not be quenched.
Water –
Not enough to cleanse, to
Wash, to
Baptise.
To rid these painful flames
But rather the flames.
A battle that can’t be won

It took so long to lay
The foundations
Took so long to raise
The structures
And even longer yet to tuck
Memories
Neatly into corners

The flames relent
Leaving nothing
But empty darkness
And all that remained
No structure nor safety
Mere ashes of memories
Of what used to be
Soaking in puddles of watered ash
Black as blood
The safe haven which shielded the unguarded
Against decisions and uncertainties
All but melted
Chaotic
And lost

This story has no comments.