Stains

Under dampening darkness, I was stained,

and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it out.

Charred too long, now bitter to taste,

a degree past what is burnt.

From without, the eye glances not twice.

Yet, I am coated in this soot.

The fire capable of no cleansing.

To my dismay the knob unturned,

an inevitable crisp still coming.

The sort of finality that dissipates to dust.

Carried endlessly in indifferent wind.

I am the ash after what is delicious

has been stolen by beggar hands.

Was there none other to be taken?

My burnt offering,

the only offering,

I, the sacrifice.

Like the tinkling of broken dishes,

that slip to the hardwood floor,

hopeless in surviving such calamity.

For the plates meant to feed the hungry,

now only cut and sliver such tongues.

My cherished treasure taken,

the price unjust, unfair.

The match that lit such a blaze?

The untempered spirit.