The flame died;
Spitting a public obscurity,
Veiled by volume
And the sparkle of illusion.
An outpouring of love
That quenched fire with fire,
Heat with ice,
Desire with approval
And the smooth nodding
Of judgemental mediocrity.
Wearing suburban platitudes
As manacles,
Chained to scars
Borne as bracelets
On fettered wrists
And the words that cut them.
Worthless echoes
In the broken shards
That was once a life
Passionate,
Vibrant;
A living flame.
They turn their backs,
Walk away laughing,
And think the flame dead.
It smoulders still;
Within its heart,
A molten, secret core
That will not die.



























Wow! That’s BRILLIANT, Sue – fabulous imagery. xxx
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Thought you might approve xxx
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Happy New Year!
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Happy New Year to you.
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That should never die . . . x
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Wonderful poem.
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Thanks Eilis
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