That Flaming Touch.
Sometimes I imagine that I have flaming wicks for fingers.
That everything I touch turns into ash, blown astray from the urn.
Never to be found again.
Making what was whole a fraction of what it once was, never to be returned to normal again.
On the outside the urn is whole, but inside contains the shattered story of everyone that my
flaming, burning, destruction sewing bombs that i would like to believe are my hands have
ever touched.
Then i realize that i only WISH i was imagining.
The truth is a sour lemon, and i can only hope that my fingers run out of fuel soon.
These burning hands are my curse, and it turns me on.
Like a light switch.
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
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
