Tomorrow,  like a distant sun
That you are hurtling towards
Only to find that when you get there
It’s not as hot as you imagined
Sometimes it’s burnt out
And the light you see is the echo
Of a million miles of your own false hope

Suns burn out slowly though
You could still have time to find your tomorrow
But you cannot move at the speed of light
Weighed down as you are by doubt
Dreaming is not moving forward
You cannot distinguish ground from sky
With your eyes closed
Stop dreaming, open your eyes
Find that dying light
And hold on.

when the word "****"
resonates from the lips of
any teacher, i cannot
help but perceive
how many students' heads
fall downward, staring at
their disquieted hands. i am
wondering how many people are closing
in on themselves, lips pressed together
in thin lines, burying themselves

six feet under into graves
constructed however long ago.
somewhere within the catastrophic enclosings
of their minds, they are the people
reminiscing violent robberies, not
of television sets or radios, but of
innocent souls. they are suffering
from the post-traumatic stress

of feeling  naked skin and cracked
ribcages and heaving lungs
never burn in the turbulent
wildfires left
behind in their burnt
lives; a simple word
is enough to have them
reliving the mournful
affair forming their
empty chest. i glance around the
room for students whose
memory gnaws at their
scarred skin, and

the  problem is
is that there are too many.

Everyone told me fire was dangerous
But no one told me you were a synonym for Fire
And now my heart has first degree burns

You got under my skin,
and ripped my heart out of my chest.
You lit a match against my skin,
and then stayed to watch it burn.

              * I still cross continents for you.

The tree's knarled,
melted bark dripped down
the warm, burnt umber
in its spokes, dropping mellowed honey as we climbed the branches.
We spoke of sweet things
like the kind frosts creeping into the valleys of misted bloom, as the silver crescents rise higher by day,
entangled by wreathes of smoke.
We spoke of that very oak tree and how it's palsied trunk had witnesses so many fires.
We spoke of love and how (despite the cliche) we can not live without each other. We together will beat on through the charms of the cold thistle.
We dance round the dusky colonnades as the stars shatter around us and the moon's cancerous head rides higher.

Hatred.
Is it what, all this while, we have learnt?
Love.
Is it what, to ashes, we have burnt?
Or.
Is it that we are misguided?
Maybe.
It's just that we are quite shortsighted.
Because.
If we would be aware,
Of the result caused by our ignorance,
Would not we have long changed,
From a foolish monster,
To an understanding human being?