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