Thursday, December 1, 2011

When the Fire Comes

excerpt from When the Fire Comes

Now my smile will not be washed pretty.
There is ash in my throat
from the last lie I lit.

Who shall I be now?
I’ve run out of clean faces to wear,
this skin hurts when I dream.
All my wings won’t fit in this room,
bones must be broken,
cries must be bundled in sheets,
a match will be struck in my sleep.

When the fire comes, who knows what will burn?

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