I was counting ashes in irrelevance,
and spitting each black spot a stain.
Concrete marks
that feel bleedingly obsolete.
No warnings from a falling cloud,
no stones from a flailing crowd.

And while counting,
I decided I was another log in the uproar.
Another ash to spit on,
another stain to step on,
and a firey burden
that feels bleedingly obsolete.

I pandered a ponder while standing in sunder
a single thought,
a fleeting breath.
A matter of mutters behind short shudders,
that maybe a spit-stain
was a cry.

I wondered in my sooty seat
if I too had been spit upon.
I wondered also if the seat I sit
questioned what had been sat upon
but itself.
I wondered these thoughts until it was
obvious
that they were bleedingly obsolete.

Why is a w****
and What a s***.
Who is mischievious,
Where but a nut.
Questions are cullings
answers a thrill.
Burnt woods are lullings
but I stay one still.

I dug about my future grave
in hopes of finding a kindred flame,
a task which could only be
bleedingly obsolete.
but this was a different time,
one of aged red wine that made my head spin,
and it was apparent that it truly is easier
to be free.

So I wriggled in gravel for bibles of babble
because I truly wanted only talk.
A branch not in shame of it's white churning flame,
and only wanted but burning.
Ash stained and simple and fully covered in bumps.
Ash stained and simple and cold in warm summer months.
What else could I ask up in smoke?

I stopped counting ashes just a while ago.
Instead I made open a spot to seated:
a bumped log to be caring, hateful and hated,
flames long and deceiftul, truthful and heated.
I wondered who'd take it and swiftly stopped myself.
It was better to think nothing than noone.

I stopped counting ashes for what seems like forever.
I've been watching afar with someone unthoughtful
the salivating sparks shooting soot starts
of an endless and strifeful cycle.
I'm still just doing the same,
but I'm counting my blessings.
I'm up to one.

I tried to paint a picture of ashes.
it was mushy and gray and I couldn't quite manage.
I've been too far, a benefactor of freedom.
The blessing upon me, with licks shared un-infrequent,
has taken a stance such as I.
I do suppose I could sit in this seat
until it is left only bleedingly obsolete.
Hateful and hated, truthful and heated:
Let the world's flames confound us,
and the log's blames astound us,
because I've no shame in sitting,
and letting the world burn around us.