I can smell the pages burning,
Like a memory descended.
The pages burn, and I am passive-
The ink a catalyst to oblivion.
Perhaps hundreds of years, or tomorrow
Bridge the gap of time,
But it doesn't matter.
My pages will burn without regret
Because all things with form vanish.
I'm gripping the pen all wrong,
The page doesn't yield, and I know that
This part of my soul will perish.
Ian Skye is dead. The extention of his soul
Severed, although the soul is formless,
Cut and quartered and measured
With a yardstick. The days are a
Testimony, the heat, the smell,
And the ashes.
