You were born a raging fire
With a sacred violence in your eyes
How long will you smother rage within
Some, storybook creature in a beautiful cage
You are not a hoax
It’s almost like there is a neighborhood of tiny fires
Little blazes we all keep secret
It’s almost like they saw our flame as sin
Oh holy decadence
Oh Bashful sun
Little fires in our pockets in the cavities of blinded eyes nestled into old rancid wounds, tucked into vulvas and in the arches of blistered feet. Little fires in the poison of our jaws.
Let us gather our children
While they are still breathing
While they still carry Camelias and Junebugs in their hands
All our smallest secrets
For desire was wrapped into sickness
Our fires are more than sacred violence
Our fires destroy to create room for life, for beauty.
And don’t let anyone ever fucking tell you that’s not Holy.
There is a prophet amongst us
Frozen in a sarcophagus
Underground Junebug
I heard a rumor there is milk and honey
There were whispers of song and poetry
I heard the frozen daffodils are turning green
Tiny beacons to hold on to a promise of warmer days
Faint stirrings, of a god somewhere
In which drawer you hide your pet fire?
Carefully measuring pills to keep it quiet.
We must have faith, the sun will return
We must continue our weaving before the hearth
For you were born in an iron forge a liquid muse
With limitless ability to mesmirize with song, with dance
and you want nothing more than to set the world ablaze
Lucid Dreams 