In the early hours of morning alone as the thoughts spin sharp, the words still unformed, the desperate hope for a nearby pen as the fires roll over him..
A soul will never read this hidden away.
The fire will remain, showing it's face every idle empty Tuesday afternoon... Every late night walk to the restroom to wash up after ***... That woman in the room a ghost, or a shell... like her last cigarette **** hanging to life in the tray.
... It's there every other trip to the grocery store when the clerk scowls at an old woman counting change.. The catatonic janitor staring up into a holy blinding bulb.. The man in a stained shirt inspecting the milk slowly.
It's there like a smashed pet on a highway..
It's there like a deer jumping in a suicide clearing..
There is a fire within me that will die without warming any passerby or curious love.
There is a fire within me that I leave as little poems written in bathroom stalls, or jail cells, or as notes tucked away in an old novel she'll never read.. They'll never read...
But if they ever do, will they bathe in the anonymous fireworks?