Where is the passion that once burned?
Where is the ignited heart that always spoke?
I fear they have gone missing amongst other flames...
A heart so fragile,
made so fragile because of the burns,
because of the willing victimization.
Scars embedded so deep,
beyond the subcutaneous layer
penetrating the soul of the foregone.
Love, where is your fire?
Why do you insist on letting the flame burn?
It is on the brink of death,
leaving nothing but fading wisps in the air,
but you can't--you won't--let it burn to the end.
My hands, once so soft and warm,
are now hands burned to the bone,
with wounds that just won't heal.
There is but one ember winking in the fireplace;
almost mockingly, it winks,
brightens, and dims,
saving itself for the last inch of my skin,
making sure I am blackened like coal.
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