Ice Cold Red Hot

They walk on coals on tippy toes for years — Ice cold, red hot, a ravished tongue of spurs. With hope, they balance happiness and fears. Over stove, truly shamed, the pot it stirs. Severe, the cursed to pace through fragile time. On doors they knock and tear off locks of hair. The shadow of crazed mimic, senseless mime. Through sloppiness of tears, they know they care. The drip of drops grows quiet - faucet off. The stains on cheeks remain — rejection’s pain. A cool soft cloth on honey skin sans scoff, Agree to toss all argument — abstain. Insanity pleads, pride be right not wrong. But loving lips just want to get along. 3/6/2018