Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

Burnt

Bleak Monday, black headline:
My abandoned birthplace burnt,

derelict, a brick shell
tilting on the horizon.

Rubble cooling, I
fell into her flytrap

of memory, broken beauty still
haunting her halls.

Smoke stains, black tongues,
swirling graffiti tattoos

scored her scarred rooms.
The smell of ash and dark pools

of fire-water
drenching the wreckage.

The whole charred body
resting in pieces.