Yesterdays lay at the pyre.
Where my stomach’s fire sparked a rage.
Flames were foregone failings.
Licked to heights of summer rays.
Mood’s churchly spire and blue railings.
Now, coat in dew from Autumn’s haze.
A guttural roar has turned to water.
Gushing torrents from my face.
A cleanse of force gave no willing quarter.
Healing coolly that pyre’s blaze.
Yesterdays they were flecks of ash.
That plumed, then, fell from yore, beneath.
Tomorrow’s mystic, marvelled path.
Rising, daily, just below my feet.
© poormansdreams
poorman'sdreams 