dying cinders

the fire burns
in the dark of the night
it writes with its flames
songs that flail and wail
at the silent sky
with its cold moon
and distant blue suns
it flares it glares
it bares its burning soul
that turns to ash and charcoal
it writhes and sighs and rages
its longings that swirl
in its sobbing hot vapours
which scatter tattered bits and pieces
of its throbbing heart
in the flying dying cinders
into the dark of the night

-by Rita Putatunda