They say don’t cry over spilled milk,
But cry if it spills on good silk,
For when you lay your head
On your now-soiled bed
The silk will be smelling of filth.
Agony—this biting cold—I say.
For warmth, there is nothing that I won’t pay.
My fingers are numb,
This poem near done,
With the last line I wither away.
Liberate me now, won’t you, dear?
From my world that is all but clear,
From threatening hands
From fiery brands,
I love you, take me far from here.
Dear fire, please, don’t burn to ash.
Rage forever, just make this last.
Still I’m not surprised
The looks in our eyes
Flamed quickly, then went in a flash.
I can’t wipe away all your sins
There’s work you’ve got to do within
But you’re on the run,
To the setting sun.
We both know you’ll never reach it.
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