History’s Ashtray
by Odin Roark

How innocent the burning begins,
when words merely sear the surface,
when passion has not yet ignited the fire,
when conscience knows little of consequence,
flouting its power to rise above the smaze of denial.

Little by little,
we drag on the influence of its high,
capitulating to the intrigue of red-hot seduction,
even as wisdom’s ancestry wheezes its ancient echo,
warning of life’s last breath is ever the next.

History’s ashtray continues to be overflowing,
the crumpled white of duplicitous reward groveling
amidst the buried cinders of yesterday,
unaware tomorrow’s probability remains threatened.

The ubiquitous fly,
being the tenacious parasite of decay it is,
crawls from beneath the ashes,
flits debris off its wings and takes flight,
seeking more killing fields of nescience,
where the smoldering recurrence of habitual war,
stages yet another gamble with life.

Oh, if only the taste of self-destruction was more acrid.