The Origin of Embers

Poison escaped my lips, fell into the cherry coloured drink that glowed with life and the glee it promised. The drink blanched and turned to ice, black because the poison drank up the vibrance of life.

The fragments of the train of thought funneled into the stalk of the glass and settled in distant crevices in the game of hide and seek. I found it all the more challenging to retrieve them and put them together for the dynamic show because the ice clenched my fingers in its crystal claws. Harsh, they pricked my lips so they bled, as if my blood was the sacrifice needed to rekindle the flame of life in the drink. The ice seeped into my blood and reached my heart, employing its signature clenching task. I froze with pain and fear of what this meant was done and due.

The ice became an inferno and boiled my blood to its origins; burned my heart to embers.

It rained ashes all night till the dawn came grey and dismal. There was no rainbow because there was no light. There was no nectar, there were no butterflies.