Not what
The fates
Had planned,
But close enough.

Charred remains
Of broken promises
And aimless paths,
Swirling down
The drain.

The pungent smell
Of old photographs
And dusty letters
Transforming slowly
Into ashes.

Prayer beads,
Free from
Their guiding thread,
Dance wildly
On the naked floor.

Discarded skins
From distant lives
Ritually offered
To quench the hunger
Of the flame.

A tearless
And straightforward
Shedding
Of useless doors
And dead ends.

Nothing symbolic
About this.