Fire up a match. Share a cigarette and let me see the ghosts in your words. Did you ever think the fight would end here? That we would be caught feeding flax seed to the extinction of doves while drums cry hawk over the bones of skeletal cities? Fall on foot, foot on fall. I fold, nicotine in your anger. Will you take me, break me, make me in the furnace one last time?
And our breath, torn in sails
Across the plains
Fire up a match. Drag your smoke in hand holding patterns of exile. Once I cut a silver tally with the blades of pencil sharpeners and chose who would bleed my wounds. So the phoenix becomes the flames. For a while. But it’s always easier to burn bright than to blow out the match. And we who are raised in the ashes of what it was to be free, well we’re just having fun.
©2017 Jac Forsyth