No one says they like the sharpness of my tongue
to be on the parched tip of it
but licked luminant by the light of a thousand forest fires
you were seared into the landscape
never so strikingly seen
lit up bright
bathed in light
Rock and stone
may break my bone
my back
is only so strong
so straight
arches under the weight
of dragging you along
Clinging to the fraying end of my tether
for dear life
a guide rope in the dark
your dark
the one you grew with your doubt
that you carry about
With its deepening void
its vacuum
into which
every good deed must go
but never unpunished
derided and diminished
for doubt is all you know
A shadow
defined only by opposition
a negative preposition
needling, feeding on
the only light left
May you linger
in your ashes and dust
rusted by your own corrosion
may it dampen all the fires you started
fade around you
like the smoky plume of gloominess
you are
left
alone
in the
dark
longing to be scorched
upon my cutting tongue.
