you see the lake regrowing
algae in the pond
saplings in the ash
honey in the hives
you sit, looking over the field once destroyed
everything you loved torched in umbral flame
amidst all the rebirth and succession, you worry
you've since become the mouthpiece of its demise
you know where it lies
activity and festival coated in ash
the pompeii of a forest fire left behind
being dug out and rediscovered
but you also know the harms
you've seen what resurrection does
there always is a debt
an instability that burns down the joy once had
and so you overlook the pond
sit among the bustling ruins
and share your lesson with the echoes of old flames:
Let dead cults lie.
