Poetry

The descent starts 
with a dance, of tears and fire. 
A culture of lids 
lowers the salt, the silver, 
the gems. 
Antithesis to cremate 
a golden ascent. 
 
The night long vigil had a 
naked puff. 
It will roll now in stasis. 
The ash will take over the tongue 
for a big lie. Faith healers stand 
in a row. The empty hands 
were getting a burial. 
 
The toeless path will ride the 
wheels now. Beyond the blue sky 
there is no death.