Starting a Fire with Ink from My Pen

It started with a fire
built with young leaves
and the ink from my pen.
Whether it is your fault or my own,
our lives are intertwined
in the flame.
Still, the breath of our moon
carries a message
to us both;
never offer up the slightest wave
of shame.

Calling from the ground is the rain
that found the wind
that blew paper from my hands.
A wind that practiced
the religion of picking up pieces
of broken hearts
and throwing them back down,
only to kiss their cries
with a stampede
of what they cannot understand.

A well thought out plan started out
with a fire built
with young leaves
and the ink from my pen.
It is not your fault,
nor is it mine.
If we can we ever stop listening
to the winds
that kiss the cries of our broken hearts,
from the flame, we would come
unentwined.

Author's Note

Artist Michael Cheval

Reviews

[Derek S.Keck]

It started with a fire
built with young leaves
and the ink from my pen.
Whether it is your fault or my own,
our lives are intertwined
in the flame.


These lines carry a weight of meaning for me. It sort of reminisces, in my mind, that first love your speaker has never forgotten, that love that you could almost say was built on mutual personal vanity and childhood romanticisms, yet, the events of that love continued on even though the love may not have; something esoteric and eternal to human understanding. Your second stanza is genius.

[Aidz]

Ohh this one is special Neva, every word , every drop of ink is coated with the blood of the scribe and the sense of emotion splayed between the letters screams at me

[EMF]

The passion and heat of this makes me want to take a long cold shower. It's a poem with such latent eroticism that it makes me want to turn the shower up full. Maybe that's just me. A suberb read and write. It has pwer and strength. Great work Lady.

[Zeitgeist Manifesto]

It's a marvel...how we fall in love with the words inside of a heart when they are loosened upon the world. The hold us together as long as they are not forgotten. How sad is it, when those words no longer have the faith needed to keep them alive. You made me wonder where the love goes and what takes it away... and what dark matter binds together that which has no explanation thereof. This is a true gem.

[.]

This a mythical surrealistic poem. "A wind that practiced the religion of picking up pieces of broken hearts and throwing them back down,
only to kiss their cries with a stampede of what they cannot understand." Breathtaking & stunning!!!

[Hayley]

This seems a bit melancholy... What once got us to start writing can not be anyone's fault, nor is it a shame to reveal. A little bit of fire, a little bit of creative imagination and sorrow... Don't stop listening to what is in our hearts because if it stops, the release fails to subdue what it once pacified.
I may be way off, but that is what this piece said to me. After all, poetry is meant for interpretation! :)

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

The infusion of reality and myth clash at each other endlessly, the meager amount of realism is quite refreshing.

[unknown]

Love the picture! I like using my pen as a match :)

[Inyourshadow]

A fire with young leaves wouldst be one of blackest smoke choking the eyes with painful tears, the wind kissing the broken pieces of our hearts speaks voluums uplifted and then left to fall again not too unlike those leaves that all too soon must die. You seem always to capture the hearts pain with such eloquent beauty. The fire of passion that burns twice as bright often burns only half as long and then we find our heart amongst the ashes cold and blackened, as always a pleasure to read keep em' coming

[EMMIE]

GREAT WRITE!

[Fabian G. Franklin]

Fabulous. I enjoyed reading this. Very original and I loved the artwork.