Dead rhymes.

The wordsmith who cannot rhyme,

loves the bird that cannot fly,

they sing a song that will never be heard

with lyrics of words that can never be known.

It is often that I return

return to the field,

the field of ash

Looking into ashes I remember,

Laughter and promises replay in my head,

Although now, they are all dead.

The beauty I once cherished,

Gone.

All or nothing,

and I didn't want something...

So,

I lit the match,

I watched it burn.

I stood by calmly

I knew what I was doing.

I was right, but now I'm wrong

And that doesn't change a thing.

It is already burned,

you dropped the match.