Challenge
Burnt.
Any style.
Redolence
I can feel
My neurons blackening.
Smoking
As if they were incense,
The haze
Wafting toward the ceiling
Of my quiet room.
The burn is silent,
But it seethes
As pieces of myself
Crumble into a tray
Like sandalwood
And resin does,
And I shrink into
The floral scent
Of my own ashes.
5
3
1