Some blackout poetry from my destroyed copy of Ovid's Metamorphosis. It was already beaten up and I got it from Thriftbooks. Punctuation added by me.

(Blackout poetry is a type of poetry in which a poem is composed by inking out most of the words on a page of a book, using only the words that remain to make a poem.)



Fire from heaven,

Burn flame and smoke,

Fearing fates and heavy wings,

Terrible, ruined prayers.



We have not yet honor, with a place in Heaven

They burned, they trembled, guilty.

They shuddered in horror, with a fear of sudden ruin.

Desperately, I hoped, a lie, a falsehood.

All I had heard was grievous.

The shadows growing longer,

anything but royal.



The great cities, and their great walls,

all their people, everything, ashes.

The mountains burn, the springs dry up.

Blaze, burn, and holiest cold cannot save the burning.

Under his feet he feels the soot, the smoke.

He is going somewhere, that he knows, but where, he does not know.