Tonight you'll rise
from the ashes of a story
no one claims
Strike a light, toss the match,
face awash, watch it catch
There's glory in the flames!
The trust you've earned blackened and charred,
just turn and cross back through the yard
and let fire burn to dust what remains...
She is a child of the mountains, of meadows, lakes, and seas.
A pirate queen, faerie princess, ninja warrior, consultant to a king.
Sliding into crevices others might not understand; only herself to please.
She fits in with so many; her plethora of talents of which others sing.
A bit of a pyromania, loving the reds and oranges of a gobbling fire.
A loner, and yet, with many friends. Others cannot tear themselves away
She follows her muses, writing and painting, in comfortable attire.
Her days are filled with joy, for she knows the therapeutic use of play.
She is a child of God, but not the one that hides behind a church steeple.
A spiritualist, she believes in the beauty of mystics and esoteric art
She is followed by a multitude of adoring friends, strangers, people.
A marvelous friend, a fine citizen, with a generous glowing heart.
I am an air sign; two of my daughters are too.
We are mercurial, windswept, free floating, flexible
Easy to get along with, none of us resolute about anything
Pliable, good listeners, willing to hear other sides.
My oldest daughter is a water sign; she has absolute ideas.
She was a Captain in the Air Force, she wants things her way.
Everything in her world is black or white, there is no gray.
I have no idea if other water signs are this inflexible.
My best friend is a fire sign; I wish that was my sign.
Because I am practically a pyromania, I love fire.
I could sit and stare into a bonfire while the stadium burned down.
Fire beckons me maybe because it takes air to make fire?
My husband is an earth sign; practical, dependable.
We know he has our backs; all of us, the whole family.
He likes to say, “let’s circle the wagons”.
He is protective, of all of us and the dogs.
My guardian angel is a spirit sign; not sure how I know, I just do.
She gives me ideas while I sleep.
Most of the poetry I write and canvases I paint are her ideas.
I am her hands but she is pulling my puppet strings.
My previous state of darkness I once coincided
Has suddenly converted to being worthwhile and much more lighted
Resulting in celestial flares so fierce that the earth shifts
Our inflamed union has induced a flame to gunpowder kiss
Commencing this craving for the volatile feeling of your lips
On all things I have wished upon, and all the tears that I have wept
Could not flicker or diminish the lurid wildfire we have set
This fervor furnace ever burning on it's never-ending coals
A continuous inferno scorching the combination of our souls
Drawing out the firefighters and setting off smoke alarms
Nothing else matters if I am melted here in your arms
Together we can molten in our world lit ablaze
In a conflagration of ardor, where temperatures have been raised
Whenever I am beside you, our surroundings meltdown and fray
This endless enamored pyromania is fueled by our smolder
As the lurid wind swirls about the endless amber embers
My survival is no longer possible without the kiss from your lips
So together we must burn eternally like a pair of arsonists
Chinese Zodiac Dragon knows her truth
She understands her thoughts conflict many
She is more evolved than most, mercurial, changeable.
Often misunderstood, for she has a quicksilver mind.
By the time the masses figure out what she meant
She has leapt onto a cliff of sixteen additional ideas.
Chinese Zodiac Dragon has a pyromania mind.
She is alive, alert, almost too bright for this world.
She burns hot; passion is her inner beast.
If you are fortunate enough to meet one,
Do not try to hold on. She will smack you with her tail
As she flies off to conquer new worlds.
She frightens many, not because she uses her claws
But because her imagination is beyond our scope.
She is ethereal, not of this world, truly.
At the Hospital:
Those flowing fields of red in the wind
The flowers abloom blow in the distance.
The psychotic struck that night.
Pyromania in the sky
Aurora house fire on a cold night
She was a lady who lost her knight.
Left alone with two children in her plight.
Busted and burst into flames, the body bled
Into the notion of whatever remains,
Then taken away to the hospital
Dying in vain, for the psychotic pain.
My mother said with a sense of dread
That she once met her for tea at her house
With those dark eyes and warm smile beguiling.
**** pyromania pyre
Its your soul your hour that burns
A war against your own
As wars is so theirs
Its waged making bones
An eternal slave
A fire that consumes
God is willing none go there
Beyond the grave
* a grook on the word of God
I have delved into the very heart
where darkness simmers, love light glimmers
then explodes in current apocalypse,
an inferno eclipse of blind pyromania.
Words, mere kindling and kerosene,
fuse wire and gasoline, erupting, igniting
screaming aflame, roaring and screaming
your name, your name.
Spluttering and guttering to portray
something of an aspect, essential
mannerism to depict your genius,
beauty.
And fail, syntax and rhetoric charnel,
useless ashes as soon as they are born,
expiring with whimpers, torn away by
a hurricane of inadequacy.
Gone, such as if they had never been,
never written, muttered, spoken, uttered
or howled.
Avenues exhausted, no other modes
of expression, dysphasia in overload,
trashed in describing the indescribable,
quantifying the unquantifiable,
expressing the inexpressible.
Language pillaged, raped and bereft
of meaning until all pens and tongues
have left is the universal power of three:
"I...love...you..."
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