How The Sticks Hurt On The Bonfire. Poem by Mary X

The
Man sits,
With naked hands
And legs to match them,
Filled jug-of-pain
the fire screams
in agony.

His
Attachment was ripped
From it’s entwined
Walls, fed to lions
And hurled towards
The moon.
Summer has passed

Although
Not by
Season. Inside him
Howls a wintry hollow;
Ice spilling into
The snow burgeoning
From the plaited sky.

She
Left him in the ditch
With two broken legs
For walking sticks.
The fairy-rose in
His soul, and left from hers.
It flew high and never returned.

What
Did he decided to do?
In which bar could a ghost
Get dipped wabe? A heartless mass
Of skin and bones.
How burnt could one be,
How the sticks hurt on the bonfire.

The
Man sits,
Comfortably embracing his demons.
Of course, his heart is still feeling,
Still smelling of that crunch,
Still smelling the love of the night,
The love of tonight two weeks ago.
How the sticks hurt on the bonfire.

Mary X.