Looking InA Poem by crepusculiteCan you see my fingers pressed tight and white on window recessed? A roaring heat eternally contained, yet transmitted not through the pane. The others inside are wary of the fire-bird canary, but they cannot mine the marble without its thrumming warble. I press forlorn the hollow in my chest where life's light would burrow best, stare at their self-immolative antics waiting for my turn to play phoenix. Oh how beautifully it would hurt, to writhe in agony on that dirt 'til gritty dust coats every inch of sweaty skin that I might pinch. Out here I can dance and bow about an imagined Pyrrhic glow, but I grow weary of my fruitless show. I long to grasp those essential embers, just once before I forsake my brothers.
© 2024 crepusculiteAuthor's Note
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