Softly he walks into the fire

One arm soaked in blood

The other, in ashes


What burns is only raw desire

The choking smoke that blinds

Dare not scathe him as he passes


Was it by fate or luck

The rain fell thereafter

To wash the crimson clovers


He turns, gently, squinting through the muck

The slimey substance in his ears, eyes, and lungs

Bubble upward as his heart churns, over and over


Some quiet ocean of passion

Spills from his lips down his chin

The salty vapor wisps traces in the wind


Are those tears or raindrops

Falling from his face with chagrin?

Or precipitates of boiling sin?


Now in harvest season, sickly reaper

Takes from him what he was seeking

Taps him with sickle-fisted grasp


In lightning, thunder, the cloud-high seer

Revels in the falling mist

That mutes his muddy final gasp

Uploaded: 5/13/07 Written: 2/07?-4/07?

A/N: I used to have a little book that I wrote poems in while I was in high school. A lot of that poetry was lost, since I wasn't too into fictionpress at the time. Luckily this, 'Crisp', 'The Well', and 'Another Time' were saved somehow... Also, I turned this puppy in and my english teacher loved it. Although I don't think she looked too deeply into the words :)