Rage...
A fuelling flame, burning bright
Rage, Rage
A dancing fighter captured against the cold of the night
Nowhere to go,
but still, he moves to find the center of the light
refusing to grieve as he moves past the cold winter night
Rage, Rage
as the cold be fought like a blight
What sin can be found against the dim, darkness amidst fright
where men be fondled across the crooked bridge high
on the cold winter night
Rage, Rage
do not run nor let the ego falter
take on the cold winter night as if it were a blight
good soldier.
Rage, Rage..
like a fuelling flame, burning bright

Burn of passion!
Withering flame!
Take my heart,
And set it aflame!
Let my lust be seen and reign again!

Hidden giver, sighing life into fields of
Wheat’s ears, rolling tide-like to meet the rusted gate of cracked through orange-ore, resting ajar, guarding the hedge line

Arms out, splaying fingers I divine life here-
God’s flame, burning Barakah, sacred zephyr
warming  fingers, frosted with tired life help them loosen and live bright

~
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm⚠️
~

I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia,
Goddess of the hearth.

But this time,
I will not be returning
home.

Don't you get it?

I've burned it down
already.

Perhaps there shall exist no
redemption
for my incendiarism.

Perhaps there is no saving
a pyromaniac

from

her pyromantic sins

from getting drunk
off molotov cocktails

to baptizing her
melancholic fingers
in candle wax

to thrusting her head
in the oven,
where carbon monoxide
steals away her remaining
strands of breath.

Tell me is it still arson
if it is yourself you are
setting on fire?--

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone
like it is fragrance

rouge my lips
with gunpowder,
every word an angry bullet
ricocheting off my teeth
and back down my throat.

I am circus act of a girl,
swallowing my own fire
just to survive

Ironic, isn't it?

Because for me,
survival entails
burning myself alive.

Soon,
I will have no teeth left
to bite these bullets:

This sadness.

This anger

rises from the
chasms of my soul
like bile.

Strange--

I always thought
myself to be the
epitome
of darkness.

Perhaps I simply
lured
the darkness towards me
like an eclipse of moths--

and you know
what everyone says about
moths & flames,
don't you?

It's funny now
that I think about it:

how the stars also
inhabit darkness,

how when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on
fire.

And where there is fire,
destruction is sure to
follow.

It is no wonder
all of my dreams--

those of

love.

magic.

verse.

have shuddered to
ash.

I make snow angels
in these ashes,
stretching my tongue out,
the remnants of
desire
scorching my tastebuds.

Here I lie,
like an extinguished
cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.

But the stars
aren't too fond of
nicotine

even though
the very atoms
that comprise my essence
contain the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh , how these galaxies have
evaded
my brooding grasp.

When my fire
begins to dwindle,
I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
lost--

lap at the iridescent
gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely
street corners;

sear campfire stories
across my palm lines
(I try to read
my future,
but the smoke
hangs too heavy);

strike matches across
my petrified wrists

just to feel something.

After all,
what am I without
my hellfire--

they could not
save me from it;

they could not
save me
from burning.

But perhaps the
true peril
was never in burning,
but in

burning out.

You gave me just enough oxygen to light myself on fire

my soul is a chamber
in which a candle sits.
a strong flame burned,
which kept me alive.

however, week after week,
the water filled the chamber,
putting the flame out,
leaving me cold and lifeless.

the water would dry,
and the chamber was empty,
except for a single ember
that glowed in the dark.

I lit matches every day
until I saw a spark.
now it fiercely blazes,
stronger than it's ever been.