Poetry

Orange tongues

Fire. A blaze in my hands that I can craft into any shape I wish. It is my passion, my flame to share. You may call me arrogant. You may call me rash. I don’t care. Of course I don’t. I can wrap my fiery rope around you and change your opinion with little more than an ember of my will. Just give me the fuel.

Poetry

Bound.

I jumped over a hill today.

One of those great rolling ones

that merge with the ocean

just out of sight.

 

I did it in one spring.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

 

I don’t want to talk about the chains.

 

They wrap around my arms,

squeezing

the flesh

so that it bulges.

 

I used

to point at them,

rattle the links in their faces.

But always

they would claim

they couldn’t see.

 

Now I stare into the distance,

leaping across fields

and dipping my toes

into the cool water of the lake.

 

They can’t see the chains;

they can’t see my escape.

 

The air

might not

be fresh on my journeys.

I don’t mind.

 

There’s freedom there,

and I claim it.