The smell of smoke.
The taste of something ghostly sweet, now gone,
soured on your tongue – the taste of vomit.

This was the prophecy, this was what your gut told you would happen.
In one face you see another and
in every word spoken you hear the older, harsher ones.

Try forgetting the hands of iron that shaped you like clay,
molded you & broke you until you became the
ghastly, irregular shape of imprints & shards you
thinly veil.

Behind what?
Will. The will to keep going, keep growing,
the will to be the person you dream of being,
those thin strands of will that weave veils for you
and invisibly guide you forward.

God knows how many times they’ve snapped,
but you like to think of them as muscles; healing over stronger,
different.

Watching the forest disintegrate to ashes,
watching the ashes stain your fingers, your heart,
watching marks of ashes taint everything you touch and love,

there is nothing else you can do but watch and keep on walking,
keep on wading,
keep on swimming through the black & cold & turbulent currents,
swimming toward your promise of stars.