#6

I wonder, wandering here
Where exactly it went.
The plane is empty where people once trod.
Treading fire through here they go,
Cricking and cracking the dust below.
But no. They don't come around here,
Not any more.
There's nothing here to see or hear.
No beating, no living.
Not any more.
Rumor has it, it was here before,
And people would stop by.
People would stop and look and smile.
People would think of theirs for a while 
And then turn back away;
Treading with fire they would go,
Cricking and cracking the dust below.
But one came.
And the same thing had happened then.
And it was returned.
And the floor is ash from those flaming feet,
Remnants of who was there before.
Some would come near, but wouldn't touch,
Some touch they would and would no more,
Treading with fire they would go,
Cricking and cracking the dust below.
But one came.
And here I wander and ponder;
Thoughts think and dryness drink,
With so cruel a jewel,
Who would come here then
To steal it again?
After touching and taking,
Then squeezing, then breaking,
Then placing back to heal upon waking,
Treading with fire she would go,
Cricking and cracking the dust below,
To take by force what he would have thrown?