friends and ashes.

my friends, they fall
one after the other
I am distant
and then they're flames
and then they're bitter
and then not
not at all.
my friends they walk away
and I lose months
years
moments
days
days woven and bred
on summer haste
and adolescence
gone to waist
days miniaturely risen
to fall
fall.
and eventually
comes the ruins
and I am alone
and my poetry wants to hold me
my father has passed
my mother withers with age
my sister
morphs in the corners of the couch
my brother sticks and stones
and sprinkling ashes
my little sister may rise a bit
then falls= again
and my friends, they fall
and so I am back to my books
and am back to my pen
and am back to tragedy
to poetry
that isnt really poetry
in the way its words are sap
in the way it lacks a revolution.
I am back in the abdomen of terror
that lacks reverberation
the potential
the ceaseless explosive
blinding potential
to be nothing
but scattering ashes.
the rattle of flames
I hold within
but scattering ashes.
my friends they fall
and I am left intently
in the presence
of solitude.