Flame (excerpt)
“I am the rose in your garden — honey-sweet,
lingering, the laughter of children, the smell of
freshly baked bread. When night spins her web,
I’m the softness of sleep, & the silence that falls
where Morpheus treads. I’ve fashioned my body
into a shrine, made my ribs a pyre of bone, & I will
burn for you, if you feed me with the kindling of
devotion; ablaze with eternity’s vermillion lick.”
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