Monday, 18 April 2011

Flying into the sun


Maybe we need to burn before we can move forward
I dream of the white heat
Were I to be thrown to the source
Passing through the fiery gold
Into cool warmed air

1 comment:

genesis in white noise said...

Grateful for my molting,
melting wax, now
trailed carpet of downy conceit.
It sounds like the eye of a storm.
I will embrace you there, wingless.