Poetic Referendum(s) On Life

Fire I Don't Employ

I could sing you a fire,
rage, lick your skin but
never burnt, because I simmer
beneath your heavy lid, placed
on the back burner. I'm charred,
hot and a mess you don't consume,
soon to be dumped in the can.
I boil over when my words riot,
until your ears combust inside,
but I'm not that hot, because
you control the temperature, while
I clearly sit on the untended stove.


6.24.21

just rambling a few metaphors to see where it goes. sharing this just because...