How like my Corona, the click and the clack
of my chordant heart breaking, in soot and in black,
of my burning mind's ashes, a smithy's dark floor,
and my self that's reforged as I kneel at the door,
as I hope it will open, though never it could,
for its hinges are melted, though carved out of wood,
for the fire that scorched it, impossibly hot,
will melt even trees; in this flame I am caught.
This text © 2002 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.
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1 comment:
This is the future chorus of my future favorite song.
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