By Jacquelin Evans

Ashes rain down from a concrete sky, but no one smells the flames. Embers burning holes inside the images we framed. Still we're looking up and all around to find what's long been lost, knowing where it matters we could never pay the cost. Emptiness is breathless in these days we burn the sun. Searching, ever reaching for that place we had begun. Cicles surrounding tender flesh that's beat stain red, pretending by the grey of day to erase all that we've said. Never fully conscious, this incapacity to feel, knees bent raw from praying that this disease might heal. Still, inhaling sulfur, navigating through thick smog; we cling to what we find for the guidance that we've lost.

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