The Furnace Poem by Salma Ahmed

Do I dare to say that in such a world,
Controlled by numbers and swords,
That I too, have lost my soul to,
A pretense that I know not what’s true?
Do I dare to reach inside the old
Graveyard, silent, melancholy, cold,
No matter what my seasons are,
And say that it holds inside it a star?
Or have I become, myself, whom
Once was a stray witch on a flying broom,
A graveyard for my very own light?
Have I become one with the night?

In a grave at the corner, so fresh,
There’s a desire of newly rotten flesh,
To sink my claws into your chest,
And tear my way through the rest
Of the strength and steal and whatever,
Has concealed you forever,
And then reach the faintest fiber of your heart,
And turn its weakness into lands of art,
In colors dark and deep burning your pride,
To ashes blown away in a universe wide,
Then make you wear it on your sleeve,
Every time I get up to leave.

Our world uncontaminated with pleasantries,
On spider-webbed- white as clouds- tapestries,
As you smile and cry and pour your heart’s blood,
Into my vessels unburdened by its heavy thud,
And I guide you deeper into mutual anoesis,
And hold in my soul the keys to all the pieces
Of a skin that once broke only for my touch,
And a mind that never opened up itself as such,
Our souls no longer wrapped around
Ourselves but one another’s, profound
As to set us apart from the dying fire
Burning us deeper into furnaces of desire.