After the Afterward

[What I like about poetry is the economy of words. There's pressure to say more with less--never my strong suit. This is a sort of bookend to the poem “Afterward” from a previous post.]


Empty was the cold blue room

It wanted warmth so
she invited it in
and it filled the space
and pushed out the cold
with its comforting oranges
and passionate reds
and she was warmed

Too late she noticed the smoldering

Passion turned fury
painting the walls
a palette of hate
flames ate their way
up the walls of her heart
and her soul turned to ash
and scattered the floor
of the cold black room
emptier now
than before

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