Fire

It's where the ground is warm
where I'm kneeling. There's a doll on fire
and the ricochets don't muffle
the cries coming from the little girl.
Don't look at me like that. It wasn't me.

                      <>

It's when the smoke is so thick 
I can barely make out our picture 
on the dashboard.  The fire is enveloping fast, 
and I can finally throw you out 
of my life. The crackling sound 
is making it hard to concentrate and text. 
There is still time to apologize, daddy.
 
                      <>

It's how the flames from the fireplace leave
shadows on the bear rug, where a couple 
shares their first date. There is a clink
of wine glasses, and the lady's nipples
are hard and clearly visible, even
from the hall closet where you stand.

                      <>

It's why it's not the robes that drape me
that make me a monk, as I sit here
in the middle of the street. It's the strength
of my mind. As the orange fabric
turns to black, I will not move. 

                      <>
  
It's what tastes like cherries to help 
the pills go down.  In thirty minutes 
there may finally be order to my words. Or 
maybe not. Even blood burns, as it slowly leaves 
the veins, and spills onto the page.  
It's what scores the mark of the pen.  
Poems are used to being burnt paper.

I just saw this....great imagery and it definitely made me think. Thank you

Oh wow, I totally forgot I posted this. Thanks for dropping by pkd1220, I'm glad you enjoyed!

Duck!

Pain bleeds upon your paper,,,nice

iam4u, thank you for dropping by and for your kind words.

Duck!