“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
The old flame
I have been sucking on rage
like a Jolly Rancher
all day-
They say
sucking calms coughing
fits, since we cannot do both
simultaneously.
The sun is blazing behind
the thunderheads
making the air tepid-
Did I mention the fire
coursing under the skin
causing the concrete to ripple
and fingers to spark?
Steam smolders in pillars from atop fences
as if the candles
were blown out.
Love and Hate, like thermodynamics,
compromises
I stand in between
with my lips stained red,
a saccharin taste of cinnamon
that was once my favorite
reminds me
of our in-
consistencies.
Still,
I struggle to breathe.
Painting by Henry John Stock (1853-1930) in Public Domain.
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