Cold Smoulder

King of the red hot nation,

Entrapped in thick layers of ice,

Was it just scarce conviction,

Or was his bright flame too nice.

Wrestling weight off the shoulder,

Singeing through the frozen cloak,

Fire under cold smoulder,

Could be given space to smoke.

Rich burning scent would arise,

Nostalgic vibe fueling hope,

Black smoke awaiting sunrise,

White clouds to expand its scope.

And thus you follow the trail,

Of metaphors in the life,

Learning what can aid or ail,

Foundation set to beat strife.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

It only takes a spark. You know when I read your lines Springsteen came to mind. Dancing in the dark. You can't start a fire without a spark. Absolutely love that song. I got many visuals from these words. Smoke rising gave me Native Indians. The metaphor of using fire can conjure up many scenarios of both love and hate. Thank you for sharing and for allowing my mind to drift with the smoke.

Chris

[Archishman Rick]

Hi, how have you been, Ms. Anne. Thanks for the heartfelt review. The thought of Native Indians that you mentioned just brought me a pleasant sense of longing for those beautiful lands and tribal eras.. A spark is how it all starts.
Take care.

[Chris Shaw]

I am well my friend. Thank you for your poetry. Have a beautiful day.

[Archishman Rick]

Yes, likewise my friend.