The <br />Man sits, <br />With naked hands <br />And legs to match them, <br />Filled jug-of-pain <br />the fire screams <br />in agony. <br /> <br />His <br />Attachment was ripped <br />From it’s entwined <br />Walls, fed to lions <br />And hurled towards <br />The moon. <br />Summer has passed <br /> <br />Although <br />Not by <br />Season. Inside him <br />Howls a wintry hollow; <br />Ice spilling into <br />The snow burgeoning <br />From the plaited sky. <br /> <br />She <br />Left him in the ditch <br />With two broken legs <br />For walking sticks. <br />The fairy-rose in <br />His soul, and left from hers. <br />It flew high and never returned. <br /> <br />What <br />Did he decided to do? <br />In which bar could a ghost <br />Get dipped wabe? A heartless mass <br />Of skin and bones. <br />How burnt could one be, <br />How the sticks hurt on the bonfire. <br /> <br />The <br />Man sits, <br />Comfortably embracing his demons. <br />Of course, his heart is still feeling, <br />Still smelling of that crunch, <br />Still smelling the love of the night, <br />The love of tonight two weeks ago. <br />How the sticks hurt on the bonfire. <br /> <br />Mary X.<br /><br />Mary X<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/how-the-sticks-hurt-on-the-bonfire/
