Pyre: Poetry

Casting in claws the fortress of sickness and strain, 

I have risen from the pile of dust, 

copious with zeal; 

My body has lined itself with scars immense and real,

and my voice is weak,
but once more I must exchange my modest misgivings
for keen apathy, forgiveness will not atone;
There is no such serendipitous force
that will give me your heart
No such reverence in the same regard;
There is no such fortune that will bless my lips
with the kindness of yours,
No such honor that will grace my line of passage
by the stride of yours,
I have minded my own heart for fear of an ache
more terrifying than the one before,
but aloft the cavernous hole, where hell is a bitter winter,
A pyre inflames my once broken soul,
Perhaps there is my one and only hope