Fire-dwarfed we all sit,
stand, wait,
drawing along timelines
scythe-eyed for news
or perhaps revelation
that this is all
just a dream, a joke.
Dust-tongued our words
dry up like sand
through an hour glass.
All gone and past
leaving only empty air.
A promise
cracked apart.
History pour out,
breaks the damn of grief
and dark-vowelled words,
replacing now with then
as what will be
already spread its roots
in the tear-culled.
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