Oecist

Nothing but a reaction
To reading, a kind of flame

That fails to incinerate
All of its fuel perfectly,

Leaving embarrassing shreds
Of texts like overdue bills

Languishing in smoky kilns,
These Herculaneum scrolls,

Creation's carbon copies
Hinting at dark, lost marvels,

But mostly the minor works
Of someone we didn't want

To find, seek another soil.
However derived, they steal

A march on the future shore.
How many cherished writings,

Lost to their native eras
Have we constructed solely

From distant paraphrases,
Fragments and commentaries?

Even the breezes carry
Seeds of a new foundation,

An old world settled anew,
A new world for the ashen.