Burn

I am a forest of tress.
An inspiring lattice
of entangled roots.
Yet parched from relentless years,
Burdened with little growth.

My configuration is destitute,
My insecure frame is seared to the core.
The fleeting and unforgiving precipitation has carved deep canyons.
My once hopeful dermis cracks
And my thoughts begin to wilt.

I am thirsty,
For a thunderstorm to drench my sanity into tranquility.
Instead, I am greeted with a sympathetic cool breeze.
Temporarily, it subdues the wrath of the torturous sun.

As always, my storm arrives,
Accompanied with desiccated lightening,
So beautiful to my eyes.
I am ablaze.

All the while,
I am slowly becoming mountains of ashes,
Mere dust particles,
Useless and arduous.
I cannot grow.
I cannot nurture
Life.