Life.

He is a cigarette burning low, Ash drifting in the quiet glow. Once lit by hands that never cared, left to smolder, fill the air. Each spark a memory, raw and red, of things they took, of things unsaid. A fleeting light, alone in dark, consumed by flames, which left their mark. A burning flower, singed and frail, with petals bruised by love's betrayal. Soft edges charred, too hurt to feel, yet beauty lingers, raw but real. He blooms in smoke, a fragile fire, a testament to all that tires- for what survives, though cracked and scarred, hold pieces whole where others marred. -r.a.b