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Campfire MAG
February 13, 2008
My ashen gentleman arises. Rich in cinders,
his hands unravel to smother the splinters
and soothe me like bubbling brandy. Evenings
often I collapse atop my sketch pad, pages jolted
with willows and whimpers and that old, ugly owl,
and he carries me in a tea cozy of smoke,
where I awake to eggs and crisp French toast
(he does try not to burn the edges).
Each drawing is shaded in shy, charcoal strokes.
But if I reach up toward his burnt cheeks to kiss,
he disintegrates ’round me, lost as the mist.
© Anonymous
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This article has 4 comments.
BitterSweet1993 SILVER said...
on Mar. 18 2011 at 8:09 am
So close, yet so far. Incredibly saddening, incredibly touching.
BlackKittie SILVER said...
on Apr. 30 2010 at 9:35 pm
oh my god...you have no idea how amazing this is
littlemelover said...
on Sep. 17 2008 at 5:35 pm
this poem was soooo cool
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