There is fire in my fingertips
pencil sparking and searing words of
Hate, faith, love
into the pages

Burning
My dreams and tears and whispered goodbyes
to steady sonnet of
Rhythm, rhyme, repeat

Hand searing and
Heart pounding and
Flashes of red and gold and silver smoke
fanning the flames

Turning page to ash and
world to melted nothing
till all that's left
is the fire

Stretching, twisting, bending
scorching lines and curves
emotion
into a smoldering page

and forming things that
might be letters
might be words
might be nothing

and from those fiery things emerges
my phoenix
my creation
my poem

And now there is smoke in the air and
blisters on my fingertips
but I smile anyway, because the fire is
still burning