Touching delicate torching plams
Reaching my hands out
I hold fire in my palms.
Touching delicate things
destroys a piece of my mind.
i put my hand on the orange silver strands of earth
and watching them gingerly blow my mind,
turning red over orange then black etc
smoldering, when like a spring breaking
I hear a rolling trolly car with cold and shiny bars.
Comments about this poem (Touching delicate torching plams by jerome moore )
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