Did Not We Cry?

Ash and smoke. 
I am fever, not becoming 
any sound. 

Like a lichen, a mycorrhiza 
on damp soil, 
unfound by light. 

Thriving in airless 
dark. Will not see the cool― 
moon of summer night. 

There was no key 
to find the invisible. 
A random poem will see. 

Your painted body 
in blue scars, still 
remembers the fallen roof.