For Beatrice
A start of a series.
Tell me the stories of past and present, the turmoil undergone with spirits consumed,
By a blazing fire, with smoke so pure in essence.
A silent letter printed to fit only this story that can scarcely be read,
By the fugitives you cozy up to, spreading your —
Legs broken from rest, and eyes muddied by the sun peeking through your clouded dream.
Each beginning we embark on as bad as the one before, each story we recount as poorly recalled, as the time we spent in silence, anguishing in our series of unfortunate events.
For Beatrice, you and I must go far away, where the ashes show their true patterns, a mirage of grey but cold, an embellishment in the print that is loved by thousands, hundreds, tens, a million, a
Long time ago,
Where ash to dust turned paper to print, to words where my ink could be seen.
