Burning Man

Too much to say, too little time

A head of full of fire

Filled with burning rhyme…

The burning man is part eagle

In the claws, grasping at the light.

But only the darkness is caught

In weary, working class, hands.

The tongue, strangely, sleeps like

Lazy glaciers.

Retreating fleeting,

Cursing its sun.

Were your words ever useful?

Did you ever get the sweet smelling prize?

Did you ever get a scrap…

The burning man burns through seconds

And years

Trailing infernal fears

Where ever he goes

He needs some one

Made of ice and snows.

He lights the tombs walls

And warms the Saxon’s halls

Of now.

He is as if a man, were stitched together,

From brandy warmth,

Wrapped in pale charcoal.

But he is fast burning out.

Just like that star,

The last one, there, on the left.

Burning Man’s weak wings unfurl

Like countless double helix;

But he is a flightless fool

A grounded phoenix.