Updated: Dec 13, 2020

We burn down the night of our love,

it withers on a bed of discontented ash

with noting but memories to revive.

The flames shot so high the sky was afire,

such passion will not sincerely survive,

unless a hand is held out of the flames,

unless lips caress the passion's taste.

An ache is felt deep in the scarred soul

for the death of true love's singed heart.

Yet memories jolt the scorched mind

of a single moment when the innocent flesh

mingled into the nightmarish depths

of what is the rise. . . of the. . . Phoenix. . .

Timothy Michael DiVito c 2019


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