written long ago, on a dark summer evening: Prose with an intended specific format.
Suddenly on fire,
she tries to scream;
but no voice comes out.
She asks for help in the only way possible.
But her smoke signals go seemingly unnoticed.
The slow agony brings hope that her peeling skin
will catch someone's eye,
but help doesn't seem to come.
The last breath brings salvation,
As the fire dies out, leaving her: "discarded amongst others, in a filthy ashtray".