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Good, Slow Burn
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Only On a Sunday.... We sat by the fire and talked about a good, slow burn
like the flames eternal, the ones that melt you into
a golden heap of sin
And everyday that you are with me, you grieve in that sin
Your blood turns rotten, sour
something twists, and bursts out of you
Is it shame?
or perhaps it is your backbone.
I have claimed many tiny spines,
and I crush them under my teeth
for breakfast
Do you really think I will spare you,
you who inadvertantly conquest to hurt me
And you will, some year, on some dark day,
break my pitiful machine again
And on that day, the flames of Hell will
trickle out of my stew eyes
and pop and hiss and crackle
and swallow you,
each of your bones knocking against the
rings in my throat
begging to be let out
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I appreciate your philosophy,
I appreciate your philosophy, but obviously that particular line was meant to be taken metaphorically. So, you missed the whole subliminal meaning behind it and that's okay. But perhaps you're right, it may not have been the best way to say it. Either way, it is what it is.
"It is a terrible thing to be so open. It is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world" -- Sylvia Plath.
Great poem
Great wirte, a lot of feeling and emotion here.
every beast as a heart, the more it is hurts the more dangerous it gets.
keep penning
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