Courtesy: Pixabay

It was a theory,
pages torn asunder.
She cupped wasted ashes in her hands,
spreading them over her heart.

Gray, it was passion’s fire after,
breathing when it no longer mattered.
Horns beckoned in the background.
She took them to heart, too.

On a swirling whisper she was the wind.
Cries died in a space too small.
It was the way of things,
or so she might have said.

©March 2020, Christina Anne Hawthorne

About Christina Anne Hawthorne

Alive and well in the Rocky Mountains. I'm a fantasy writer who also dabbles in poetry, short stories, and map making. My Ontyre tales are an alternative fantasy experience, the stories rich in mystery, adventure, and romance. Alternative fantasy? Not quite steampunk. Not quite gothic. In truth, the real magic is in those who discover what's within.
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