The burning of my heart, how it aches
to set the world on fire, with such rage,
a passion that used to lull me to sleep.
To build a fire until my furnace breaks.
It’s the dark hour that consumes my soul
poised over fading keys in the moonlight.
Where slender fingers wrap around my throat,
with claw-like nails digging beyond control.
They prick the skin, nursing a painful necklace
begging me to speak the forgotten truth.
I can’t recognise if it’s the heart or the brain
screaming; my limbs are wild and restless.
The tingling feeling starts to burn and sting.
An uneasy quiver corrodes my veins.
I suffer silently, stripped bare of hope,
no words to write, no sounds to sing.
A scar I can’t blur, a pain I can’t tame,
a thorn on my side — feels like I’m dying.
The love inside me has nowhere to go,
no vessel to contain or quench my flame.
I never dreamed of falling in love,
like a constant cascading waterfall
current pummeling the water below,
Akin to a rickety bridge above.
Endless darkness beckoning underneath
the smell of fire and decaying leaves
when the sun goes down and the night
is suffocating in its silent, dark wreath.