Vincent

Embers. Ash. Smoke.
A blaze. Towering flames. Raging inferno.
A funeral pyre.

All that reflects in his eyes are
the sparks from the fire that
curl upwards, stretching for eternity.

A phantom tingling exists in my shaking hand,
bound to the memory of loss, of failure,
of his last grip.

Screams are lost in the roar of conflagration,
but they echo ceaselessly
in my own traitorous ears.

But the overriding words--
so flat and unemotional--
exist evermore: He is dead.

Burns still flame from distant memory;
the incendiary smell remains upon my robes;
his image is still fixed in time, falling through the

Embers. Ash. Smoke.
A blaze. Towering flames. Raging inferno.
A funeral pyre.