burning skin, and underneath
a smouldering soul
a body that burns itself for fuel
or out of hate
i can’t be sure
i’m sure of only the burning, the itch
the inability to rest or to act
the constantly turning fiery spiral
my own little glimpse of hell
and what if i should die tomorrow?
and what? i’m dying every day.
no phoenix ever rose from the charcoal
paralyzed, pyrolyzed my substance fades
my tired bones turn into air
only my wise little eyes from their sockets
looking down through the grime and the smoke
understand that within this somber glow
of a being that eats itself
history repeats itself
in the worst of possible ways
that it would be mine to do
either to smother this fire
or to fan the embers into blazing flame
to be fire
I hope there’s enough of me left.
I’m running late.