Where the Ashes Still Burn

I went where no one dared linger
to the places I buried my former selves,
the voices I silenced to survive,
the altars I built then burned to dust.

But something called me back.
Not guilt,
not nostalgia
but flame.

I walked barefoot into the rubble
of everything I thought I left behind,
and there
right there in the ashes
was a pulse.

Not of regret,
but of resurrection.

Because what dies in surrender
does not stay dead.
It becomes oil.
It becomes witness.

And I saw it
a faint glow
where the fire once raged.
A whisper rising
from the ruin.

Not all ashes are empty.

Some still burn.
Some still speak.

And from that holy ruin,
I remembered
I was never abandoned.
Only refined.

—Joe Restman
Mystic-Scribe | Flame-Bearer
Quill Dipped in Lightning ⚡️