We scavenged in cindered circles
and collected pieces of house flesh
brass frames clutching fire eaten photographs,
glass and melted porcelain,
reclaimed ruins we never held close enough.
We are warped clutter
seizing and contorting from exposure to violent heat.
We are melted and molded
and twisted and turned
and trusted to a life we didn't understand.
Our mistake was not believing in this hell we had been making.
Soot and ash and embers
orange and red and suffocating slow.
How could we not have known
the season would change
and leave us to cherish madly
What was left of the love we gave
inside of our burned down house.
Poem born from: a slow autumn burn