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Apr 2015
It isn't the fuel I lack,
My heart rests at the spilling point.
I look not for kindled wood to keep me lit,
But for the Kinder voice that would yield the appropriate heat.
I am as cold as butane alone,
I burn for a companion.

Sparks are as cheap as thrills,
The wholesome whisper of the promised ignition teases the flint in my pockets.
I yet burn for another temporarily.
Yearning for the forever, while bursting over every one, ever.

Peasant pleasantries persist painfully,
Pouring through my pursed lips I stray a plenty.

For every fragrance carriers more then a scent,
They collaborate together,  a massive cyst in my mind.
I cannot overlook the Siren's smell.
Rather I take note and dwell.

Dwelling in the dark, looking down, I drink.
Water that rushes through the world comes to rest in my glass, as I contemplate the transparencies of my affection.
Eliot Winkler
Written by
Eliot Winkler  North Carolina
(North Carolina)   
354
   Cecil Miller
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