Tuesday, September 11, 2012

sonnet two hundred twelve

haunted by the scent of ash,
we have been standing in
the middle of a fire,
ever so consumed by this

desire, where, even in the
gorge of our souls are elevated
by the ceaseless red and
orange flames, running

towards the creation
of random clouds of
thoughts that bear only

what we long have held
for one another, what
we make of who we are.

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