Scents of Creosote

I had been easily tempted to witness the burn out house.

To recollect those feelings.

To cherish my hatred.

To bemoan decades of fear and doubt.

I drove by the structure

times 1I drove by

And, drove by again.

My wanting for display began to wear thin.

Scents of creosote and thin dusky air does not change.

So, I went to raging waters to rearrange.

To evoke black soot tragedy from another’s time…could never be mine.

I had discovered the healing rains ever so kind.

Burn After Writing


The smoldered remnants of what use to be

hold no fair for me.

No embellishment of the truth in the broken windows of youth.

Alas, only charred recordings melted to waned walls.

And, flammable fiends in wait down the hall.