|
The Arms of Fire |
I can still hear the ashes
speak of Santa Maria and how
she burned, her eyes circled
by darkness, her thighs clenching
the life that she gave
in death.
She had yearned
for love and a daddy to hold
in her room filled with broken
dolls and torn dresses.
And from the smoke the ashes
speak again, confessing
how they worshiped the taste of her fire
that came to claim the smell of her skin.
Smoke cannot be
contained. It can only speak
the truth, lest we forget
that the smell of fire comes
only from what it burns.
copyright 2014
Scott
Alexander |
