Ashes

The wind breaks the stillborn night.
The broken chime clatters in the air.
The storm batters a quiet plain.
The forlorn soul roams without care.

Much hath the widow lies her head onto a pillow,
As doth a father lay down his son.
With brimstone hail that sweeps the steel atmosphere,
A lone willow burns until it is done.

Smoldering soot blends into the clouds,
While the consuming flame dwindles into darkness.
The crack of dawn brings new light upon the ashes.
The Morning Star overlooks with starkness.

Down the barren path lies an unfortunate tale in vain.
A lifeless gust drifts through the debris.
Under the charred log the broken chime remains.
In time this urn will find its peace.