In Which We Burn
Time is the fire in which we burn,
ripples of lava on inner landscapes,
eddies and swirls which twist
and turn.
Kerosene progress burns me now,
I feel
the pain of sweet conflagration
dead cold and real.
Hypnotic the effect, I embrace
it’s dissolution,
dissembling before a mind’s eye mirror crack’d,
denied absolution.
Reminiscing on the snow-queen wife I knew,
awaiting her fascist husband’s demise;
I see her alabaster skin and feel
the succulent texture of
her tongue in my head;
even now I shiver and drown in her eyes.
A scent of burnt toast
in the kitchen
(she slowly licked butter from her fingers),
a Machiavellian aroma
of stale coffee and strawberry perfume,
even now it hangs, kicking dead air,
it lingers.
Time it slow burns me
from frost-bitten toes on up;
I still want her and need her
as the air I breathe;
her haunting aura feeds
the flames and this fire
it sears;
time flame-throwers my existence
for what feels like years;
if only I could cry
I would shed
ashen tears
for the torch which guttered and died
at the click of her manicured fingers.
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