shooterspen
shooterspen

Not the fire

This fire is no cleanser.

Scorches throats

A coating of lies,

Voices molten into silence.

Muddy ashes gather deeply,

Threatening lightly, snowflake lightly

Without clout.

To unpick puckered flesh,

Who would bother?

Thankless task.

The ice remains

And flames cannot warm again

The unfeeling grime

But someone did this crime.

It was not the fire.

 

Susan Shooter July 2014

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© Susan Shooter