A word
a subtle insult, not forward,
is where it all begins,
in a biting retort that stings.
Gentle praise,
or a harsh phrase,
a cliche,
they say,
but I disagree.
It takes a raw soul to see
the implications in a glance,
the horror, or the possible romance,
or, growing like a weed,
the burgeoning greed,
or in some,
ever-present like the universe's hum.
A frantic biting of the lips,
one that just about rips
like a gnawing despair
that harbors no care
for the fragile mind that cares too much to be kind.
A word cannot form
the picture of the norm,
the extraordinary
or the painfully dreary.
It cannot capture
the enticing rapture
of a power that is higher,
a flickering or steady fire.
Unintentionally lit matches
illuminate the fervent scratches
that can either brighten our eyes
or reveal lies.
A flame that burns
allowing us to yearn
for the spirit of the passionate flame.
It consumes no shame,
heady and breathtaking
it reveals all I am faking.