The Vanishing

The spirit recedes,

nothing left

but the idea of embers

and somewhere else,

embers.

There is no heat:

just warmth 

as a feeling

and somewhere else,

a fire;

no smoke:

just grey

as in ash

and somewhere else,

carbon.

The world is not honed down

but whittled away;

not emptied out

but vacated;

not poured forth

but discharged.

Whisper thin

the veil turns vapor

and then disappears.