pyre

stepped on, ground underfoot,
the twist
of skin flayed by asphalt.
rock, hard place.

withdraw.

fingertips on edges,
walls were too hot.
outside the room, it burns.

tired.

of being ashes,
of being burnt-black
and blowaway.

of words
piles and piles
of words and wishes
of work and wanting...

nothing,

at the end
of these fingers
but more words
more black

more buried.

withdraw.

tiny stones build
an altar for this
holey heart.

a sacrifice:
self and
satisfaction.

by time,
with tiny hands
and tiny hammers.

so many tiny stones.

when the pyre
is complete,
there will be
no angel of god,
staying the knife
saying it was just

a test, a test
and you passed.
there will be

just
a mountain
made

of tiny stones
around a room
of tiny stones

around a tomb
of tiny stones
around a sarcophagus

of tiny stones
around tiny,
tiny stones,

and smoke

and nothing.