The last spadeful of dirt offhandedly tossed on the flames, smoke rises in a thick shade, like it would do for the burning flesh of a frail hope at its own burial ceremony. The scene vanished behind, for a second where I can’t help wondering how long ago was it since you gave up on yourself. A moment later, a wind sighed on the meadow, caring away the mystery mist, revealing the irrelevance of the answer. The conbustion was made history.

Tell me what could possibly be said or done to aleviate the greif when the world is left with no balm to soothe my burning wounds covered self.

None of this was of your making, so not yours to ease and there will be no measurement, not even time itself, for it will never be enough for what you meant to me.