The key is to identify
the infuriated dome,
baffle the fire
till it loses its heat.
For once in a while,
you can call me home
but when I burn inside
will you douse my skin?
Sometimes I'm caustic,
Sometimes I'm cold;
running through the sidewalks
with my sleeping feet.
The passing sceneries,
farrago of street figures —
barely alive
with an impaired sky.
When all the flames begin
to strangle your wrist,
the entirety of these ashes
is for you to descry.
— MLD | 05012021
YOU ARE READING
Artifice
PoetryMy question marks were never caged but they always find ways to conceal their images and trick the pachydermatous spectator with artifice. Maybe, certainty can be Socrates listening to the mixtape in my closet? Maybe uncertainty can be me withou...
