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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2240702
There was a moment, a few afternoons ago, where I was reminded why I am still alive.
The window is on fire.
It hurts my eyes.
White line curtains boiling golden
Leave black and green scars over my world.
I want there to be a fly
Hovering between the flames like hanging vines,
Waiting to be consumed.
But it is not the season for flies -
They die out in the cold, even the firelight isn't enough
To warm them -
And so the flaming frame is still.
The black lines of treetops cut through the haze
And the blue of
A tearoom afternoon
Drifts into view.
Smoke cannot consume it.

© Copyright 2020 Michael Rose🏳️‍🌈 (munky6 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2240702-The-Window-Is-On-Fire