may the curtain never close.

I am envious of all this talk of burning;
I am burnt out
mere ashes 
begging the wind to blow me away,
to blow me somewhere 
someone won’t poke through me 
with a stick to see 
if there is anything worthy 
of being salvaged in my remains.

I wish I had more than a charcoal heart
ever in wait of an ember to set me alight,
to make me burn deep into the night.

If I were more than ashes,
would you leave me be 
or would you 
still be sifting through me
with clean hands made filthy,
rubbing me across your forehead
as you search in desperation 
for something more to save?

Will you,
will you save me anyway
when you see
that there is nothing left in these remains:
no mask - no jewels - no fear

Will you still save me
when you see
that all I am
is me?

luci_black

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