Rating: G
Word count: 221
Warmth is lost on the dead.
Human beings: mortals, drift about for an arbitrary amount of time on this planet, unseen crimson rivers warming their veins, unseen Crystalline spirits warming their bodies.
Warmth is lost on the dead.
Camaraderie, congeniality, kindness, goodwill... Humans gather around each other like a bonfire, desperate to heat the empty recesses of their own confused souls.
Warmth is lost on the dead.
Passion, fury, desire, rage... Humans explode like fireworks, a brilliant display of colorful words and emotion, lost into the universe almost as soon as they are spoken.
Warmth is lost on the dead; lost but not forgotten, and there's the rub. For every one thing the living can not understand of the dead, there are two more things the dead had once but now have lost. In this sense Kikyou was still alive.
For, in her soul was the warmth of Kindness, the warmth of rage, and the bitter warmth of love lost, pumping movement through her frail clay form, no worse for its artificiality, no better for its perfection. But the heat from the fires burning within would only serve to crack and crumble her in the end, as any child knows, you can't leave your clay doll too long in the sun...
All things, in the end are lost, for the dead.