The Window Is On Fire

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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