Atop her funeral pyre of bodies, former loves and lusts and
ash
I find myself, like a bird with no place to land and rest
weary bones,
Anxious and noxious. 

Her heart lay deep beneath bone and skin, like a crumpled
piece of paper,
Thin and formless, unmoldable and dry.
"Can nothing reach this deep" i ask, plundering what spoils
i could.

Simply put, i am but a body on the pile, waiting for lips of
fire to carress the flesh,
And what will be left of her? (Piling more bodies...)
glowing ember, stone.
What of the days when her own body kept gardens aglow?

Such warmth wasted on cold hearts. Will we ever learn...
Wandering like vagrants, scraping, digging for a taste of
home,
Are we so satisfied within the walls of convenience?

Now here we lay, but bodies on the flame
Waiting to be consumed,
With no heart to bleed