Ash Taints
Crimson blooms drip thick tunnel vision
staining my horizon shadows of gold.
Bloated clouds dance with black stars.
Mulch puddles make a soothing cushion
wetly kissing my head:
the pillow shared only with skulls.
Grimacing sockets meet my gaze. Nod.
My hand twitches
a morbid greeting hanging from bloodied barbed wire.
My grave companions chatter with glee
in the blistering wind,
mock my estranged and offended limbs.
A spasm of smile flashes through me,
maybe my mouth curves, soft agreement.
Trails of ash scream exclamation marks
painting a worthy epitaph before
my eyes vignette, seal in readiness.
I open myself to welcome promised ivory whiteness,
to feathered arms of pure respite,
to pale fingers brushing my face.
I open myself.
But the embrace, when it comes, leaves blackened handprints.
It burns forever white-hot red.
Tamara Rogers works as a graphic designer and photographer in Birmingham, UK. Her writing has recently been published on the New Scientist Culture Lab website (flash fiction piece Digital Eyes). She enjoys reading science-fiction, fantasy and weird tales and is currently working on various short stories and her first novel.