The Wickerman

I once built a wickerman.
It was on the advice of a friend.
Or perhaps a foe.
I built it with blood and sweat,
Wood and charcoal,
Hopes and dreams.
A twisted focal point for my humanity.

I threw my whole self into it.
My hopes for the future.
My confidence.
My wanderlust.
My compassion.
My faith in humanity.
All laden with wood and rope,
Awaiting the hellfire,
Of my wickerman.

I unleashed the flames.
My hopes went up first,
Burning into melancholy.
My confidence followed suit,
I became an ember of my former self.
My wanderlust became smoke,
As if wishing to escape.
My compassion melted to slag,
Turning my heart to hatred.

My faith in humanity erupted last,
Turning to ash,
Like the world around me.
My wickerman burns furiously,
And my soul with it.
My humanity seeps away,
Like clouds of smoke.

I am human no more.
The wickerman is ash.