Ashes of my Pyre

These Ashes they fly around,
A smoldering fire dies down,
Ghostly figures still remain,
Waiting but hesitant to reclaim,
These Ashes flying around.
Some wail songs of sorrow still,
Louder than those with genuineness will,
Some torment lashes on naked skin,
With more fury than a personal kin.
These corpses burning bright,
Like jewels in the dusky light,
Worn by death's bride,
She stays decorated by its side,
The whiffs of her perfume emanate,
Consuming all the ghosts that linger.
These Ashes, they fly around,
Subverting all of human sounds,
With the dusk the wails die down,
The lashes for now are unheard,
The smoldering fire is now an ember,
Extinguished of all earthly beauty,
A warm grayish white mass,
These Ashes are all that last,
On this bitter night in December.