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myveryown_nemesisI've spent about three hours combining my electronic poetry journals and updating this journal. So today's entry will be from past-Me, because today-Me is tired.
the fire
Disembodied hands reach for the sky
in the deepest of the dark jungle.
Banshee dance, devouring the fear
of the lost little body – all alone.
Apollo’s chariot flames,
touching my soul with fire.
I sit in the hot humidity,
Waiting.
Banshee scream,
devouring my patience.
Waiting.
I stand alone.
1986
I original wrote this in my creative writing class in college, and strangely, the original version was published in the Literary Journal (no, I don't remember what is was called; I don't even know if I kept a copy). This is a little tighter than that version, but I'm not sure if I like it or not. I remember having a fever when I wrote it.
the fire
Disembodied hands reach for the sky
in the deepest of the dark jungle.
Banshee dance, devouring the fear
of the lost little body – all alone.
Apollo’s chariot flames,
touching my soul with fire.
I sit in the hot humidity,
Waiting.
Banshee scream,
devouring my patience.
Waiting.
I stand alone.
1986
I original wrote this in my creative writing class in college, and strangely, the original version was published in the Literary Journal (no, I don't remember what is was called; I don't even know if I kept a copy). This is a little tighter than that version, but I'm not sure if I like it or not. I remember having a fever when I wrote it.