Baptême par le feu

the home i was born in

has burned to the ground

a smoldering rubble,

the very foundation

is unfamiliar

the last tendrils of smoke

curl upward even now

past my face

a sweet incense

unto Heaven

years from now

the vines will creep toward

what is left

to cover it over

Nature's burial

to my children

it will look ancient and beautiful

the remains of a chimney

blackened

the battle with twisting ivy

so poignantly lost

no stone

left upon stone

all erased

excepting the memory

which lies in glittering shards

among the rubble

blending with the broken china

and yes, if they ask, then yes.
it was arson

it was either the memory or me

it was them or me

her, or me.

for once,

but maybe never again

i chose Me.

and so i am the daughter

of my own mind

the phoenix

rising