Let's It White Hot Smoulder Poem by Mark Heathcote

Love is it fiction a worn-out fantasy
A loose thread you've been too afraid of pulling
Do alarm bells ring louder substantially?
Are you drowning lost to yourself consoling?
Asking, does it matter as long as I'm not alone?
Pure fiction or autobiographical
we each all need to write, wear our own, cologne
wherever we, you've come from topographical.

Our demographics our differences
love should be an extension of our better selves.
Not governed constitutions, alliterative-
eloquent make beliefs full of lying snares.
Love should be a costuming fire a sun
only getting hotter and getting colder
when life's full physical course has been out-run.
Then even hotter lets it white-hot smolder.