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