Cinders Poem by Charles Cross

The morning sun's burning peer over sylvan green decor
Leaves a languid corpse in me.
Senseless, I am lost Lazarus;

Amid the passion of Life's fiery flesh and splendor,
I am a banquet of rattling
Bones before my favorite nightmare-

The one where I reach the flame without scorch
Of hand or sprinting beat.
I miss the invoking laughter

Of children, and the way a young woman of formidable beauty
Could easily dive past
My deepest barrier.

Melancholia finds me worthy only to wither.
Fervent colors and delightful sounds immerse
Into gray forevers without saying goodbye.

My senses turn to ash along with feeling good about myself,
And not a single cinder from the fire
Breathes in my every day.