Our marriage is not of vows,
But fingers of flames, tracing curves.
Breathing into each other’s beds,
Smoking the smoldering coals,
Which once lay dormant, now,
Incensed by the passions of fools.
She brands my ears, with steaming gasps.
She tears the flesh from off my back.
With searing claws, she rings my finger;
My eyes reflect her dazzling embers.
As smoke chokes the air and sets free,
Sparks floating off, into the breeze.
It simmers through the night,
As the sun begins to rise.
The birds begin to sing,
The blaze begins to die,
And this pile of dry ash,
Is divorced into the sky.
Hoping to spark again,