In Which We Burn
Time is the fire in which we burn,
ripples of lava on inner landscapes,
eddies and swirls which twist
and turn.
Kerosene progress burns me now,
I feel
the pain of sweet conflagration
dead cold and real.
Hypnotic the effect, I embrace
it’s dissolution,
dissembling before a mind’s eye mirror crack’d,
denied absolution.
Reminiscing on the snow-queen wife I knew,
awaiting her fascist husband’s demise;
I see her alabaster skin and feel
the succulent texture of
her tongue in my head;
even now I shiver and drown in her eyes.
A scent of burnt toast
in the kitchen
(she slowly licked butter from her fingers),
a Machiavellian aroma
of stale coffee and strawberry perfume,
even now it hangs, kicking dead air,
it lingers.
Time it slow burns me
from frost-bitten toes on up;
I still want her and need her
as the air I breathe;
her haunting aura feeds
the flames and this fire
it sears;
time flame-throwers my existence
for what feels like years;
if only I could cry
I would shed
ashen tears
for the torch which guttered and died
at the click of her manicured fingers.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment