I wasn’t looking for freedom
when I slammed the heavy iron gate
leaving the house on Sycamore Street
nothing but flames, ash, and smoke
I wasn't looking for freedom
but there it was
beckoning with both hands where Coal Avenue met Sycamore
extending both arms
to embrace the Arsonist of Memory
My hands,
my hands, usually grasping guilt
only longed to feel heat;
they weren’t prepared for the third degree burns of blame
Followed by a blessed numbness,
the fortuitous fiction
we call forgiveness
so beautiful poem and nice shot.
have lovely time.
This poem is very beautiful.
I enjoyed it. It is possible to think.
Beautiful lines
i like <3 good job
Very nice poem. Fantastic blend of words. I like it. Thanks for sharing
is very beautiful poem good work :D