I am a ruin, something that was build and forgotten oh so long ago.
Something that now dwells amidst the ancient vines whom slowly make me fade to green
And hide me from this world
Like a dying emerald in a jungle made of glass
I am what remains of a home; With doors long gone; With windows long broken
And the wind And the rain And all the dust Wipe through me
I am every rotten brick, every stone beneath my feet;
a painting of a tulip withering in the winter sun.
I am every artless picture frame that will be tomorrows kindling.
And so, alas, burn me away
for I, too, want to be the ashes that wipe through the broken hearts.