There once was fire.
Witnessed no flame.
Only feel the leftover warmth,
An open, bubbling, smoking wound from which molten lava spews and black dust rises.
Don’t blame me for the fire.
Blame me for the sting of my medication.
Call me your Little Neo.
Neosporin Neoclassical Acid Jazz Musician.
There was a fire. Past
There isn’t anymore.
What we have is not
I’ll just take that festering wound and mold it into a tiny, unforgettable, pink blemish you have to know the exact location in order to begin the search for.