A Slow Burn
The language we speak,
Is anything but fire.
No amber, no light.
It is a language of retire.
Words used to ignite,
The flames settle into a wet wood.
They no longer warm on a haunted night.
The flames settle,
And we never thought they could.
No fire,
Just washed out smoke.
What's left, what's dying,
Crawls into my throat.
Burn and suffocate,
Our fire not to subjugate.
![](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/671264_428f51799cf1410085955654f76b154d~mv2.jpg/v1/fill/w_980,h_653,al_c,q_85,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_auto/671264_428f51799cf1410085955654f76b154d~mv2.jpg)
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