poetry & things

Only a smouldering pyre

This desert, with blinding beauty burns

a season of birds, always coming, going

before the sun, the raining grey of clouds

we traveled miles over hills leading up and outward

with all its budding ways, the glowing days of May

fragrant petals faded into summer

scorch of our lips, how we slipped

into the ways of reign and fire

our love, only a smouldering pyre

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