This fire is no cleanser.
Scorches throats
A coating of lies,
Voices molten into silence.
Muddy ashes gather deeply,
Threatening lightly, snowflake lightly
Without clout.
To unpick puckered flesh,
Who would bother?
Thankless task.
The ice remains
And flames cannot warm again
The unfeeling grime
But someone did this crime.
It was not the fire.
Susan Shooter July 2014