The Fire Ritual

He found himself suddenly
prostrated before the Sun’s
singular authority.
Voices echoed.
It was Summer.
And strange music… Lips tingling.
He watered his head.
He achieved an ache
few are capable of.
And then dropped his organ in the gorge.
The young man
with the gum in his mouth
forges ahead into the fire
his hands have shaped.
Pale Earth drapes the pallor.
He came from squalor
and lives as a rag
amid fog and disgust.
So much disdain painted over sky.
The question bursting from his rancid eye.
Who folds what face into a square?
His face he flecked
with bruises, boredom.
He burned up good.

-r. miller

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s