Cast me ashes to the sky
When done my time to be,
As the winsome butterfly,
Free
~ ~ ~
Seasoned
I am a sojourner
having thinned my soles
’tween the youthful vigor of the warm Pacific
and the cold awakening of the Atlantic,
and I am weathered, fit of wear,
sufficiently rounded to
ply my strides where now I walk
amidst the soothing souls.
Always?
Why must there always be
a little “Never” in “Always?”
Heated
for all them wanton,
ingots
glowing,
spewing,
molten of her valley,
keep short thy tongue
for alas when
desires quelled,
them vanquished,
embers left evanesce amidst the Ashes
~ ~ ~