Burning
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As chilled as November's first ice
They entitle my orbs
Grey – blue – a dark mixture
Just toss the colors in a blender
Watch them boil in wrath and seethe
To create (me)
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But they are half-a-dozen
Furry blind mice
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My veins are not frozen streams
Stagnant with indigo formaldehyde
The June's of heated passion
Wrath-fury-odium
Have seeped to the frozen depths
Of my permafrost core
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The damns have broken – spewing liquid
In a turbulent white-water river of rage
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The steam coils as snakes in a mating ritual
Feasting off the murky spirit of this
Deluded heart of mine (it hemorrhages)
And they can touch the scalding pot
Encompassing the entirety of this body
Weary are they – when the kettle ruptures
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They walk on tip-toe glass shards (about me)
Wondering – will he bubble – now?
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Because he is burning . . .