Ash

The stain of the day
Is spread out in the sky like an old tarp
Held up in tented peaks with the hands of ancient buildings,
Their windows like tombstones and gaping smiles.

I find myself prostrate again
Before the crumbling altar of your life.
My arms spread like a nun, nose to the frigid floor,
To be drawn and quartered by grief and regret and if onlys.

The silent movie of your life is projected before me,
No orchestra or dubbing-in of voices.
Only the sound of the projector and its distorted film
Clicking away the wasted days with each frame.

I say my Mother words, the flagellating vows
Of self loathing and self hate and crucification,
And by the time I’ve reached the end of the script,
I look up to see that the evening sky has been reduced to ash,
Like your eyes.