The world was a powder
keg. Someone lit a match.
Sitting on a staircase
hollowed
out by flames. Still
standing but standing
surrounded by red-brick
rubble
just like everything else.

Hands are stained
but not with ink.

Rued be the day that
the world raged red; now
writing letters to shadows
passed.
Signed and sealed with
wax but never delivered.
Rays from the ever-setting
sun
burn the letters to ashes.

How bitter, bitter this
parsing of words.