Out.

The crackling of fires singe the back of my eyes.

I cover the truth that lies before me, digging into what never was.

The mind drifts to sacredness, islands afar.

Red paints the body and soul, leaning arrows against my chest.

Unwilling to believe myself unworthy,

I unravel.

Brevity marks the soul, chains shackle untrained minds.

Driven by an unseen being, I lay my hands across my shoulders.

Unshaken by the afterthoughts of childishness.

A living creature needs no passion where gentle warmth comforts in their solitude.

The fruits of labor have no meaning without a burn in the heart.

The flames die out.