It's Still Life

The Garden of Ordinary Apocalypses

She was drawn moth-like to the darkest flames, not just to feel the burn, but to tell the story of their kindling, the light they gave, and the ashes they left behind, but her problem was the problem of the artist: “How to let people see what’s there—and paint with words? It’s nearly impossible, she thought.”

Where Smoke Forgets Its Name

She walked where even smoke
forgot its name—
drawn not by heat,
but by the hush before,

that whisper of kindling,
that spark too shy for flame,
the breath that stirs
embers on the floor.

She touched the burn
not for its flash,
but to trace back the grief
that made it light.

What hands struck flint?
What price did they pay
to warm the hush
beneath a gentler night?

She carries stories
like a charred bouquet—
each stem a ruin,
every petal flame.

Ash clings softly.
Some of it stays:
a kiss from fire
asking for neither name
nor blame.

Not all who burn
do so to disappear.
Some light the dark
to say:
I passed through here.

---

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.