August 4, 2021

I have no urn,

No vase, pitcher nor ewer,

To add to the fire

Or to squelch the embers.

I only offer tinder and hearth,

Intentions masked by errors.

We are imperfect at birth,

Shaped into diamonds

While baking in flames,

Hoping that from the ruins

Of the scorched earth

We are rescued from the slag.

I am a step slower,

Kinks in my hose,

Last down the pole,

First affected by the smoke,

Waiting for the inspectors

To determine arson or accident.

We are imperfect at death,

Reduced to ashes,

While baking in flames,

Hoping that with the last breath

Of our tortured cries,

We are separated from the slag.