now I stare at an empty space,
the singe on the surface is telling,
traces there was a scorching heat
and,
ashes unseen harbinger;
flames are sparks incinerated,
fanned smoldering embers
...enkindled
hot with the cold?
the throb of a muted rhythm still pulses?
dreams of reality?
reality in dreams?
Popsicle soothing chill's pang ?
scattered rose petals cooling passionate friction ?
It's a terrible thing to doubt what we feel;
restrict the sting of the salty tears on an open wound
hesitation to touch inside the fiery ring because of the blisters of the burn...
© Harlon Rivers
© Harlon Rivers
