Ceasing

It's knowing we could cease overnight
and by morning, be no more
than pasts and forgotten figments
pencilled away in hidden diaries
to be burnt in winter's flame.

To watch its ashes rise and litter the air
would remind me of how engulfed
in grief and sadness I would be
and how the words I carefully articulated
would float aimlessly away from me.

Flames can't take it away from me -
they stay like bloodstains on fresh sheets
and hover at the back of my mind
like ghosts ready to haunt
and forgetting is no option which
can be attained...not with the depths
we've created, not with
the hearts we've formed and now
have to break

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How do we find broken glass in pockets
ready to graze and cut
when we rummage through all we have left?
How do we find a way out
when all we have are
memories which lie hidden and hurting?