Porcelain china doll skin
shows bright under stark yellow
fly bloated light.
I reach to take your hand
unaware your fingers have broken off in mine.
A silent victim becomes ash,
the twinkle in your eye once so green
now a melting pool of candle wax.
Under the onslaught of flame
your delicate lace bra strap
has fallen on your exposed shoulder.
Moving to fix it I fail to notice
the charred sackcloth once sundress.
Oblivious to smoke I see fresh mountain air;
a bountiful spread of vivacious hair
so eager to have fingers run through it,
now fallen away to soot.
An unnoticed television plays in the corner,
a sad box encasing flame.
What was once so good
shall always be now.
The glorious rays of paradise
bask me up and down,
reclining in the crematorium’s coffin.
© 2013 p.hill