Fire

My love is strewn about the ground.

It is dried up, husks, debris of
something that was once tall and beautiful.

Now, it litters the space,
crunches underfoot, and seems to
dry your throat as you tread carefully over it.

I once thought this love
would build a great edifice.
I thought it would span the
spaces between my heart and my fear.

Now, it spans the space between our feet.
It is fallen, misshapen, and twisted by
the heat of our contention.

Well

Let that heat rise, then.
Let my fury emerge, let it break free.
Let my rage surge up, let it lick
the bones of my passion and the husk
of my heart.

Let it pour over the ground,
let it blast across this space.

There is no altar for my broken heart
to lie upon,
raised and open, exposed for you.

No, my heart is strewn over the ground.
Humiliated in it's undiginified exposure.

It feels the open air like a wound, and
there is nothing gained in it's decay.

So, let my fury rise and touch it.
My heart may have died, but it is no
involatile husk.

That fire kindled in my anger, watch it
rage over the remains of our love.

Watch it pick up the shreds of my passion,
watch it make the tinder of my heart dance,
surge and scream.

Let it crack the dried bones of what was,
let it boil over the ground.

Then, let it catch you by the ankles and
drag the flesh from your feet.

You, who would carelessly walk over this place,
this boneyard of my love.

You who would make a mockery of my
new emptiness, and my emaciated hope.
Let my fury stir my husks into a whirl wind.
Let it swallow you up, and render you
and your over-spiling heart,
your open soul, and your birmming passion
into dry ash.

At least, among the scattered ashes of our
love, we can lie, used up, together.



WORST POEM EVER