Throne of skeletons

A vast, vague, vexatious mist of war. Remnants of a listless civil war of insurmountable regret and chagrin. None of this makes any sense.

But you fight. You fight for a causeless cause. You fight because you have been told to. The weapons you were given will make widows, but there are no opponents except yourself. You cannot widow yourself; you have no one to mourn for but yourself

Petty qualms. A wave of ashes swirl in between your fingers like a acrobats performing a technical routine. All of this is routine to the human psyche.

Sitting on your makeshift throne of skeletons you have created. Once-flesh beings of nature incinerated by passion; incinerated by lust; incinerated by wrath. The fullness – the plumpness and silkiness – of skin is only a mirage, for you, too, will emaciate yourself from the lack of nourishment. The lack of psychological invigoration. The lack of sanity.

Reminders of beautiful flora: hydrangeas, lotuses, epiphylla, vanilla and cherry blossoms. One moment of exhale and they will finally wisp away from your consciousness. You’ve held your breath this long, ruminating about the feeling of petals – so succulent you could feel them sink in your teeth once more.

Take a deep breath. Don’t need to blow down the little piggies’ houses. Just let it all go.

A woeful dance of ashes as they waltz into evanescence. A last vial of tears. They’re all gone.

This wildfire you’ve created is a blasphemy. A sacriligous desire. The end of your asceticism.

So bare your red robe so you may once again feel light against gravity of the world. And let the throne you created dissolve into oblivion as you raise yourself out of your seat.

For after every wildfire, flowers shall bloom.

Light may never come back to you, so compress it, conserve it and live by it.