she rose from a spark, glowing
like an ember for nine months she
thought, she
had already seen the hell on earth
the mother's womb like a hearth
that kept her away, safe from demons
waiting outside the doors of her heaven
to lay upon her the commitments
and punishments
for she had sinned eternally
unknowingly,
but unforgivably
glowing the way she was
in her mother's arms
a little spitfire
men cursed like they had rehearsed
for the great doom, it seemed had
fallen on them
a welcome she received
in the form of hateful stares but
she started to rise from ember to
a little, warm fire
inviting, comforting
for she had her mother to look after her
kindle her, refuel her
protect her from stompers
who wanted to her to burn in her own
mind, body and soul
but she rose
and rose, rose and rose
to be dark and danger to the monsters
a sight of relief to the carriers
a life for her supporters
she fed her worshippers
feasted on her destroyers
look after her sisters and daughters
and her mother who created
her,
The Spitfire.
-m
YOU ARE READING
Threads
Poetrysometimes flowing, sometimes tangled short, straight, blues and greys pearls or drops of tear drawn together by thread like words. ...Threads is a collection of poems from different themes written at different times. The pieces may vary in colour...
