stop thinking about the rubble of your future.

about the charred thunderheads

whose rain never fell

whose lightening only cauterised

the wounds of the clouds

about clipped wingtips

cut too close to the bone

bleeding out and drowning in winds
 whose sails they once had flown

like an doomed egg
stumbling pathetic, ejected
from a nest onto a bed
of rotting pine needles.

or,
you could stare at it;
at the dying embers of a chapter written in soot
(or a name writ in water)

until the imprint of an inevitable pyre has burnt itself to your retina

leaving you as blind as a zen monk's white wall.