Spiked Furnace Poem by jodde taylor

Raised raised,
each second raised
arriving in sheets of dawn
everything turning, yielding
burning.

The oven of my virtues,
I threw into the fire
now running wild,
how bread bakes with a crispy edge.

Our strewn laughter,
tossed on the floor
it all got stuck, it's muddy
drowning in etiquette hell.

Spikes lay across the walls,
no going over, to low to go under
the world keeps us turning, yearning,
placing us into the furnace.

Once free, we may fly
a sterilized sunset, may survive
as the tide, comes in higher
here captured between,
water and fire
desire surges in quaking rains.

Baking in thoughts,
I'm a roasted pig
laid out with a spike,
stuck through my mouth
turning, yearning, burning
I'm the special surprise
a feast of naivety, being eaten
by a banquette of human stupidity.

Watching me, glaze and burst,
you left me too long
the furnace filled with spikes,
I am crucified
there is no escape,
from an engulfing flame.