I'm the one who played with fire. The burn marks were my only identity.
I would rather be devoured by the flames than have the flames raging within me.
I'm a man with a million faults, but am I still allowed to be angry?
That my life has been slowly and steadily reduced to ashes.
That every one of my bones has crumbled.
For having my brain pierced right through my eyes for the simplest light to shine through the darkness inside me.
God has been relentless in purifying me in His flame, while every night a new flame burns within me, staining me all over again.
The inner flame that burns hotter with every 'sorry'. Am I supposed to be angry?
Or maybe I just want to purify you again in the flame within me so that one day I can love you as I used to, as if you're the bright light that guides me.
YOU ARE READING
Two Waxing Crescents Left
PoetryWe knew it was bound to end. See you on the second waxing crescent from now on, my friend.
