A, Fire

I walk, amongst the tender shoot, it once was. The ashes stiffle breath, grey lost in eye, now brown so dark this sky. The stream was in bathing, floating clutter, dreams of yours to cry. My Feat is roses, shrivel, burnt are vineless, pink as once was pale blood. Riderless, horse of dust, would if could to finish thus, tramples under foot, burnt ropes that chafe the soul, in acidic soil, once more. Is it, sits and crys, barren, to wade forever, through once potted tender hands, to know no more.