Beyond the flame; outside the window.

Here in the street, my neighbors weep.

Still in the kitchen; there sits my pencil,

and songs and stories; I’ll never speak.

Inside the flames; there is a pureness

And from that pureness; there comes a blankness.

Years will pass; new homes will stand

And then we’ll know; that nothing then was ever written.

No pencil laid upon no paper,

No oven burned for far too long,

No food caught flame,

And no one to blame,

No memories of what then was lost.

Beyond the flame; and through the window

I see mistakes that turn to smoke.

I see the pen, I see the paper,

I see in each, my new beginnings.

No songs were sung, nor poems spoken.

Those parts of me are left behind,

Except for now within these verses

Where I confess my one true crime.