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Old Burn Area, Silverheels Mountain, Colorado, July 2020. Copyright © Michael D. Warden. All Rights Reserved.


My eyes rise to reveal

these wet cheeks glowing

under the pale cast

of the winter moon

Skyward, I lift up my

cry, a frail lament,

scarcely heard above

the wind’s careless howl

What am I now?

a specter,

a thin-spun shroud,

the stubborn echo

of a life I thought

was mine

I do my best to

pretend it’s nothing

but my memories

betray the hope that

still will not yield to

the burning whirlwind

of my days

The ashes dissolve

between my fingers

like dust, fine and black,

staining my hand, my

clothes, my neck, my eyes,

catching in my throat.

I don’t how how to

breathe like a normal

person anymore.

Do you see me?

Will you come?

I am Peter, lost

in the maelstrom now

with no idea, none,

how to survive this.

So forgive me if

I don’t give a damn

right now whether

I have little faith.

I just need you

to wake up

and find me.

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