Etched spicy words on squares of glass.
A little bit cathartic.
Release the words of fiery flies.
The world may read with perfect eyes.
Creeping increase in temperature,
Freedom of letters,
Immature.
None can see or feel these words,
Dispatched on rise in Celsius.
A puddle in a pile of dust.
One thing is that, of that I'm sure.
(c)LIVVI