Fire stirs gently
In the depths of my chest.
Hot rocks, rolling
The molten stones down to
My stomach. The
Ache is quelled, substitute
To flame. Piping
Cold nectar, as gold,
Drawing only the
Boldest flames, dragon-like,
From my throat, my eyes,
My thoughts,
Invoked. Strong,
Stirring-gold, brazing,
Golden flames. Quell
The pains of my
Productivity.
Sooth the raw burns
Of my purpose,
Or lack thereof.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC
Fire stirs gently
In the depths of my chest.
Hot rocks, rolling
The molten stones down to
My stomach. The
Ache is quelled, substitute
To flame. Piping
Cold nectar, as gold,
Drawing only the
Boldest flames, dragon-like,
From my throat, my eyes,
My thoughts,
Invoked. Strong,
Stirring-gold, brazing,
Golden flames. Quell
The pains of my
Productivity.
Sooth the raw burns
Of my purpose,
Or lack thereof.
A poem about alcoholism.
#31 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.
© Lewis Hyden, 2018
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