fire drill.
two souls parted in a way:
broken and bruised, fated to decay
young love ruse in a spark, in a fire
that quickly melted their hearts, in a constant flare
flames began dancing in the rhythm of nightmare
to dream too soon, guilty for arson
in the ashes they fall, a prescribed poison.
victims of their own fire; destined to cross paths,
but never to be together.
this is not a drill, this is love when caught in the middle
it burns, it leaves scars, or leaves none at all.
i don't know what love is, but start stepping into the traces,
inhale the smoke and observe how it does suffocate.
i don't know what love is, but it should hurt, it's not a drill
'cause that's how you'll know that it is real.
YOU ARE READING
Wild Cards
Poetry"Wild Cards" is a collection of poems and proses for all of the uncertainties we'll have to gamble through after taking the risk and giving chance to open ourselves to something new.
