Out of the fire;
fire of crime.

Explicitly pleading
to be extinguished.

Passion
and point of faith.

Digging
at the heart
for moisture
in the dirt.

Clouds, like white
curtains, turning gold

from
yellow sunlight.

If these years
were not strategically
blessed,

were a larger
paradigm deposited,

such time
would find me dead.

The streets would
have me swallowed up,

inside would have
multiple meanings.

Lightning could
strike, or a puddle
may blush.

A hole
in the path
could take
away your
chances.

But magic is
magic.

—

Will you
marry me, karma?