Ashes

Stretch your roots,
like a dreaded paste.
Cling to the souls,
who's orchard is barren.
Tear at the grasses,
close the gaps.
Something has splintered,
red-staining-ground.
Like an old berry,
purple and sucked.
When you feel,
anything,
you merely chop yourself.
And once you,
become a hangover,
nothing annihilates you.
Why why why?
Salvation tears down,
your dirty leaves.
But it was you,
who smelled death,
and smoke,
and wood.
And nobody,
plays with ashes.