Cinders

Cinders

Althea sits beside the hearth
where once a fire burned hot and bright.
The grate is warm with ruby light,
staving off the chill of night.

She stirs the ash with sad despair,
the poker in her shaking hand.
She could not bend to his demand,
nor could she make him understand.

The truth is gone, destroyed by fire,
her secret safe inside;
letters showing that he lied,
like words he spoke before he died.

Althea gathers up her clothes,
again the flames leap high and bright.
Where cinders once glowed in the night,
a roaring fire now casts it's light.

She watches as they burn away,
and winces at the bloody hiss;
weeps for all she had, will miss,
his needed lies, his searing kiss.

She wonders if he felt his death
when the dagger touched his skin;
or if the unborn life within
will understand when the blade goes in.

Althea's eyes are cold and blank
as embers glow again,
She laughs because she feels no pain,
as tears fall down like cleansing rain.

She weeps for all that she has lost;
the fire will never tell
and wonders at impending hell,
then shrugs it off, she knows it well.

Althea sits beside the hearth
as sunlight slowly enters in;
his life or her's? the life within?
Which was the greater sin?

The grate is cold, now filled with ash;
the secrets there forever tied.
No one will know Althea died;
a consequence-because he lied.