Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2013
I had been flickering
for months

I became deaf
to my own white noise

I did not hear
the sizzling
of my own
dying candlelight

perplexed by
the burning
between my fingertips

I looked to see
miniscule carcinogens

I stopped feeling
the breeze
I could not calculate it
without equating it
to the swaying
of my flame

Without an internal inferno
it is cold in November

My hands are sore
from the friction
I have been causing
myself

with gratitude
I am burning again
my heart beating
with lovely combustion
HR Beresford
Written by
HR Beresford
2.7k
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems