Inability
What remains after the fire
is the undiminished stone,
the bedrock of your insanity.
Perhaps one day you will
mortar them into a cairn,
an altar to the furious gods
of your occasional holocaust.
Yet today you are sowing fuel in furrows,
in deeper and deeper wrinkles,
your nostrils brimming acrid,
your mind lost in the strati.
A cigarette tossed against the scree
blossoms like a sudden star.
Again an agonising glance at
the undiminished stone.
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