The day I swallowed the sun,
I bled vermilion.
There was no way to stanch the plasmic haemorrhage
Of light trying to escape.
My limbs were glowing charcoal,
My skin, flaking ash.
Yet my singed heart continued beating,
As my lungs became potash.

I come to tell you that we survive incineration.
Later, picking through the cinders,
We can even delight in soot,
And make of it new ink.