Thrice a fickle little flame nipped at my fingers
Thrice I stared into those flames, wishing to see the answers within the heat, within the crackle and pop of little fires
Each on their own islands. A dance for each, a shape and twist to all that are the same and yet completely different.
Like each of the lonely souls that pass me by as I write my piece.
Candle light has a wild kind of beauty as in humans, domestic and yet capable of a lasting burn.
Even if one is a pyromaniac, a flame is a flame and skin is skin. No matter how much you might like the burning, it changes a person.
For even when someone gives a flame to much air, the dripping wax remains.
YOU ARE READING
Drunk Minds Speak Sober Souls
PoetryThe beautiful thing about poetry is the fact that it's all emotion turned into word. These are just some ramblings that I had to get out of my mind before they drove me insane, sometimes they're a bit poetic. Feedback is greatly appreciated! :0)
