I got angry and I crafted a verse. 
Cochineal-stained ink spilled 
until my reeling arm throbbed 
as though the note had been written 
in its own blood.

Pallid, I walked, 
the brittle autumn leaves 
crumbling underfoot, 
cremated by the torrid flames 
expelled from my heart; 
ashen treads, 
whisked by fallen wind
leave glinted impressions 
on melded tissue.

By Laura Benn