It'll rain, and it'll all be gone. Just like any other ash. Washed away. Gone.

Just like every other impermanent thing. Gone.

I suppose I tend towards poetry when I don't want to say how it feels. I display every aching sound that's waiting at the back of my throat with pretty words. Pretty, pretty words. I know that I can have power enough over those words to say them one day and I know how much it will mean when it happens.

Until then, it's poetry for me. Pretty, pretty words.