Of Ash and Flame

A wonder. A mystery. Was it ever truly known, the correlation between death and the disposed? It crackles and burns, peeling away at layers of pain. A wonder of ages to see the crooked crown on the scornful head. Could you explain the relationship of woes and worries, the care that goes too far on a dissatisfied heart?

Mysteries.

The spice of life for only those who are dead, fearing that their eyes might become home to the fiery furnace of Hell itself. A blank expression on a mottled face makes even the hardest of hearts grow cold with despair. Is there any hope? A joining of happiness to the sorrow and pain that comes from the bond of indulgence and gluttony?

Reckonings.

Not a person knows or understands how one can go in hand with the other. It sparks and melts, bringing together a horrid symphony of hurt from an otherwise warm and tender believing. Not a thing is alive that knows not of the two that sleep in sorrow for the morning's rain. Not once is it known…

Of Ash and Flame.