Naked flowers

I burned our naked photo's tonight,
Petals of the flame curling into the dark,
Five years of hanging on,
Surrendered to the match heads spark,

Our love's young bloom, before my eyes,
Becomes a shriveled up and blackened rose,
As the celluloid curls up like toes,
Layer upon layers,
Rose upon rows,
As the ashen pollens rise,
An undecided light, blossom-flickers across my nose,

Bouquets of potent chemicals,
Dangerous if inhaled too long,
Seem to fill up this open air,
Cloying, reaches into my lungs,
But I am not intoxicated by its fumes,
Immune, I gaze into the blooms,

Our nakedness and shame,
Covered finally by some carbon blanket,
Like in another life-light,
Petal-adorned bed clothes,
Set for a banquet,
Sex and death and flame
Burned up like innocence,
Burned up by pain and blame,

And when the flames have done their work,
The darkness came, to reclaim,
Among the scattered ashes, a thousand tiny poppy seeds of light,
Like the lights of a distant, distant city,
Crackle persistently in residue of shame,

And inevitably they too will die,
Giving seed only to these futile words,
Until I stir the Ash laid flower bed,
And again, in their turn they burst,
Into more cities and colonies of even smaller seeds,
Until lines between dark and light,
Seem almost blurred.

I lay these Nude and firey flowers,
On the ashen grave of our loves hours,
And prayers ascending, like hot ash into the night,
I release my heart,
I release the light.