Ascha

At languid flame the withered tongues of men Whispered frightfully a name beyond ken. But fit the cosmic-shadowed dancer saw To grant their timeworn audience twilight's fall. Behold, shattered carapace of mine flesh— Behold! That which is dead shall live again! Colors in hues too ill for mortal eyes; Pulsing static, ichoric, breathless cries— Echoed thunder, hollow ring: cloudless skies Could not bear the curse of ancient demise— And here, I rise. Smoldering with greater vice. I turn, and burn; there will be nothing left When I am sated. And all that is, shall rest In ash and dust. Even time will forget That once there was love. Hate. Perhaps regret. Only hunger remains. For I alone In dim memory recall the last that shone. The ones before that showed me the way home.