Garcia Lorca
He lights a match in his mind
kissing the flames
like some obscene lover
letting them caress his prickling
flesh, fondling their penetrating
bite, letting them merge
with the pain deep within himself
until they become his words.
In kissing the flame
he kisses the anonymous
face of his torturers
unapproachable and aloof,
blowing their flame out,
knowing inside himself
when we cry its usually
because we must, even
when we think we can't.
Scott Malby
Posted over on Ken Again
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