Probably not as funny as I think I am
Insta @chloe_j_writes
They called it barren, but a windswept place cannot be bare-the wind lives.
By Chloë J.3 years ago in Poets
Pulses in the air, tendrils curl around my ear, tell me “he’s awake.”
Hold tight to your glow, for ‘tis a precious thing, not too much, just enough.
If the sun is fire, the moon must be ice, and I always hated heat.
Painted my face with what was left after the flames dwindled, a tribute.
Cupped my hands, showed you the firebird I held. You blew it out, to ash.
In the candlelight, your vow, a lie; voice flickered in cruel reflection.
What is flame, without air to feed her, or water to soothe her rages? // What is air, without Earth to travel, or water
You were the first kiss of a candle before the heat began to burn. // You were the prelude to the deluge, kisses of fragmented rivers.
Autumn, burn the world in a flash of your blazing glory, ‘fore your death.
Windy City, give me back the years that you stole and I might come back.
Couldn’t look away from the wreckage that I wrought when I said “me, too.”
