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Our house is burning down.
The flames are lashing and tearing
every(our)thing in it's wake.
From the bottom to the top,
Our daughter's doll house,
our miniature planetarium in our bedroom,
my compilations of writings about you/I/us.

Don't rush for the door, dear.
There's still a chance we can subsidise these
gallowing flames that's trying furiously
to charr our ship in the message in the bottle
and our memories into ephemeral ash.

Stay.
For all the reasons to save what we have,
what we've longed for so long,
what we've built from the pit of our hearts.
So,
Stay.

We'll find our way through the maze
and through every well wishers curses.
We'll fix everything that needs to be tended to
and we'll grow to love each other once again.
**I'm staying.
stéphane noir Apr 2016
write something for me, darling.

write me like one of your fancy girls
all glowing and sinning in my gown.
write me a beautiful scene
in an italian countryside
with you and we're both just in the best of shape.

write me at night under the lamplight
where you can barely make out
the outline of my face,
but you see the lamplight in my eyes
and for once you wonder
what's behind that twinkle.

oh but darling just write me
in anger when i can't meet your needs
and you blame yourself,
throwing your possessions all about
and tearing your clothes off
ripping me apart asking why oh why not
couldn't i have just been faithful?
but you know she never burned me
like you do.
won't you write that.

don't you write me darling.
don't you dare put us on a boat
in the middle of a sea
ready to capsize as the rogues pass,
sloshing and tossing us about.
don't you take me below deck
and remind me that jesus h. christ
is [where oh where don't we both know]
... and yet i've forgotten.
it's been so long.
i'm hardly adjusting to the altitude, you know.
not to mention the wine.

won't you write me a philosoph-
checking and correcting and spiritually connecting
until i throw my manifesto into the fire place,
and in your face, your blazing face,
that dances as the flames charr and erase
the passionate loss and cherubim embrace-
doll, what does your skin feel like these days?
oh lovely, write it for me. write it for me.

write me for it.
right me for it.

i'd like to be erased, thus:
know-it-all that i've become!
unwittingly writing with my two left feet
and my two left thumbs.
[cough... sputter... shoulder glance.]
i have wined and dined myself again, dear.
no thanks to your writing.
it's just black now, and i've no idea what's to come.
kizzia Sep 2015
I told myself not to think about you again
I waited this long for my heart to mend
But when your eyes charr into mine
I fall
   fall
     fall—
treacherous.

And I fall
    fall
       fall—
precarious.

And i fall and fall and fall and—
I choose to be perilous
I choose to be hurt
I choose our love, incredulous
And I opt for the painful curt
Devan Anderson Nov 2015
I wonder
How it would
Feel to spark a flame,
Watch it ignite,
To light my
Flesh on fire,
And sear the very
Skin from my body.
To allow
The white of
My brittle bones
To blacken and charr.
I wonder if
I would suddenly
Feel some
Sort of warmth
In my bones.
We are so cold here,
My soul and I,
So very damp and cold.
Its like a hurricane
Inside of these
Bones I call home.
So if I was to
Really and truely
Ignite my bones,
Would it warm
This hearth that
Has been as cold as death
For so very long?
Or will I simply burn,
While others use my light
To continue on
Their own path
As if my screaming
Is only background noise,
Gravel crunching underfoot
On their journey?
Will I only burn
For others to take my light,
And leave me to
my own conflagration
Until all I am
Is ash and dust?
Sam Steele Apr 2021
Take it from me, the things you can see
The wonders your eyes will behold
Mother Nature did good in this neighbourhood
It’s a landscape of riches untold

The lochs and the glens, the Munros and Bens
They are stunning you can’t disagree
Rivers Clyde and the Tay and the Forth and the Spey
The Findhorn, the Don and the Dee

All kinds of rocks, have been turned into brochs
Into castles and bothies and cairns
If I had a say I would choose Skara Brea
As a great place to show your wee bairns

From clear waters great *****, great meat from the coos
That both share the rich fertile fields
So too the deer, with venison premiere
And the sheep produce great woollen yields

The fishing’s fantastic, there’s salmon (Atlantic)
Grayling and pike and big charr
I’ve so little doubt there’s superior trout
That I’ll not tell you quite where they are

We think thistles divine and we like the scots pine
The heather is gorgeous in flower
There’s gorse on the ground. Scottish bluebells around
It’s what young haggis prefer to devour

We have eagles and kites and owls through the night
Ptarmigan.  The grouse are widespread
If you don’t fancy that, there’s a breed of wild cat
And lots of our squirrels are red

Both at midnight and noon it’s like Brigadoon
The landscape is magic caressed
Every plant, every hill is possessed of good will
And the nice beasty that lives in Loch Ness

I could tell you more, but I’d just make you snore
But believe me that’s far from it all
If you’re still full of doubt come quick, don’t lose out
‘Cause we might rebuild Hadrian’s Wall
Cruth-tire is pronounced Crew-che-ra
The words is Gaelic for 'landscape'.

— The End —