swailing

what should be said of the sorceress that
ignited a fire from where no kindling
exists – a place dubbed the badlands,
where few things thrive,
is all incinerated making way for
new growth?

my eyes reflect the streaks of amber
in yours – left scorched in the heat
of your words, the pyrophytic parts
of me are left to grow unperturbed:

you singed my tongue,
only you remain now.