How the dregs of love gather
at the bottom of our soul.
A residue from the stench of neglect
and the festered scars of abuse.
Then when the flame has died,
when the warmth is only wispy
tendrils of smoke that elude
our clutching grasp,
they are all that is left.
Ashes of dreams,
ashes of love.
gray, cold, dreadful
ashes.
10/12/98