No.

Ashes or dust?

Golden square,
spilt with the blot of black;
spreading,
wracked with the burdern of heat,
crumples, crushes, cracks and cries.
The glisten of the yellow square
screams bronze - no, black
as they lie, consumed by flames.

Silver square,
on a sheet of white;
off-white, specked with bits and pieces of tears.
The fingers of fire
willfully peels at it,
the silver square submits
as it whispers a collective sigh
before turning into
ashes.

The silver basin
sits in front of me.
Round, its mouth is
gaping wide
as I feed it
squares of silver and gold.
So wide,
within, are the remnants of the fed -
look at its lips,
stained with the demands of its greed
as dancing lights of maniacal gleam,
red and orange,
flicker off its palette.
Is your appetite never satisfied?

Are we all kindling?
Are we all pieces of dying ember?