How like my Corona, the click and the clack
of my chordant heart breaking, in soot and in black,
of my burning mind's ashes, a smithy's dark floor,
and my self that's reforged as I kneel at the door,

as I hope it will open, though never it could,
for its hinges are melted, though carved out of wood,
for the fire that scorched it, impossibly hot,
will melt even trees; in this flame I am caught.