Burnt flesh of cadence on hot summer nights.
Sparks will never burn bright enough to match her eyes.
As she lays on the floor, a mystery to mankind.
Someone puts another log on the fire.
The flames are alight with a soul's glow.
She wonders what fuels the flame,
in her life,
and who put it out.
The scratches of ashes running up her arms,
a marker of what she feels on the inside;
a truth created by blackened sticks,
and hateful remarks in the din of night.
The night burns on unto day and the flames draw softer,
pulling in their exhaust and turning violent shouts to sardonic whispers.
Her eyes cast shadows on the thick, light-sick ground.
Her mouth pulls at words she cannot speak.
She trembles and wonders,
as the fire hisses black smoke,
if a soft breath, serenaded by her lips,
could extinguish a fire.
She wonders,
if a breath out would leave her
breathless inside.
A moment of pity's sake for the Beast,
before Beauty can be freed from under the capturing glass.