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.
Vincent by Nagini Riddle
Chapter Endnotes: The loss of best friends is very tough to deal with. My heart goes out to anyone who has had to go through that pain.