Ashes to ashes

Annie Eagle

White horse of the apocalypse. I stand tall, a silent spectator, the indiscernible fumes of

vanity wafting through the twilight sky. Desolate planes conform to a new age of

wounded beings with no face and crimson palms. Stripped of their being

they wander with stationary crutches in a smog of despair. Burning

knobs from my flames, crutches splintering in the

discovery of the mirage, finding freedom

in the disintegration of the crutches

that hold them stable in

ignorance. Rising from

ashes