Cremation Threshold

Absinthe eyes

burning glass—

a dissonant hiss

splitting the menacing coma

of night.

Shadows of looming walls—

predatory companions.

Disturbed fire

behind my gaze.

Ignition—

the frigid night air recoils.

Combustion engulfs the marrow—

skin rupturing,

the smell of scorched flesh

chokes the night.

I stand.

Midwife of the dark.

From the fire,

a man steps forward.

Not a lover—

a sacrifice.

Peering into the furnace of my eyes.

I decide if he burns.

Cindered slag remains—

or gold.

from Inward