September and I must taste
everything. Greater the pain
of still hum than crash. Enough
would be a stagnant lake,
and I am in love
with burning. I am
a hungry river, eager
to take into myself some
of every shore I meet. Burnt,
then scarred my hand
as it sits
on seasons of trial
over the fire
that cracks and spits
again a friend.
Friendly captivity never stays friendly, she says.
But caves unwandered
are depths unknown
and fires untouched
will never refine
(says the one
to whom I
will not bow).
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