If I Were a Poet

The rain fell,
and it kept falling
until our lives were flushed out the door
and washed away with the trees and cars.

A thief in the night stole our love.
Everything we once shared
was packed in boxes in the hall,
waiting for a truck that would drive away,
leaving only a ring
to remind me of what pressure can do to coal.

Someday the old one will come,
reading my name from the scroll in his hand.
I will do whatever he demands,
throwing everything into the fire.
And even when skin and bone have turned to ash,
I may be struck down, but not destroyed.