The
fires moves down, down
from
the mountains, down
through
the center of my soul,
streaking
the inner darkness
with
golden yellows, glowing
if
not illuminating, burning
stone
and soil, sucking oxygen
as
the red wind consumes
my
paper skin
sparks
and flares, thousands
of
tiny lightning strikes move,
speed,
feed on the combustible
carrion
of my mind,
borne
on the red wind,
born
of the red wind
my
throat is dry parchment
my
forehead a fever of fire
raining,
uncontainable
This
poem is submitted for the Whatever the Weather prompt at dVerse
Poets. To see more submitted poems, please visit the site.
