The Flint In The Cold

These rituals are finite and yet we play each
beat to a scathing rhythm. When we sit with
hands clasped before the fire, as though a wall
to shun the shimmered cold, we ache for some
tension; the rolling crunch of a fuelled wick, or
the grating teeth that deny all chatter. Find a
warmth in these palms that clench, held aloft
over white flecked with red. The picnic blanket
of our hearts is where we dine in these last
hours. Do you quake like my azul heart? Or is
this the final time it matters? Send the dark
away once more and let the stars blink crust
and crystal into that void above.

That Man, That Reason

To be
To think
To see with flames
To flee
To drink
To hate those names
To swell
To bolt
To be a ne’er-do-well
To blink
To shield
To cry and to wield
Too much
To carry
Too much
To let go
To play with fire
To be a hedonistic fly
To crumble
To bake
To know what’s to die
This is how you made me a man