Ash
Reaching inside I palm through the ashes, as the limb starts to finally shake.
Where was the young one, what became of his pet?
My gazing reflection must seem absent minded, or lost, as I ponder this fate.
Just a pasture of fond memories I am soon to forget.
Then a little rush of windhope tickles my spine, a breeze from the runaway tide.
Was it this plain where the little boy fell, rag doll in hand?
Running a finger through the grey charcoal sea, a line, a trace on the darkening slide.
Still the wind blows it away like the wave, and a foot print in sand.
It's dark without light, and we need light to see
So I burned up the pages of childhood in me