She watches
As the glass bubbles
And scorches,
And says to me softly
'I'm sick of all the waiting'

She burns because she's frustrated,
The flames
Baring her soul in
A rictus of beauty
Kissing away bits of meaning
Pieces of a life
Until there is only silence.

Silence is her keeper
Her lover
Her greatest friend
And her most precious darling

Silence keeps her well fed
And nourished
On the sweet pang of indifference,
Giving her shelter
When the world brings only pain.

She finds
There is an art to silence.
Something about the way
Your mouth dries
Your mind dims
In it's presence.

It is much easier than it used to be.

But inside
She is awake
Alive
She is still burning.
Her bridges,
Her thoughts,
Her fears
Are nothing
In the face of her greatest defiance.

She'll burn until
The ashes no longer mock her,
And the memory only gives way to silence.

And more silence.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Variach, in the year 167 MA.