Hello Steemians!
Here is your weekend fix of angsty poetry. Peace! x
The Still Small Voice
In the mouth of the fire, devouring the cheap 70s wallpaper,
tonguing its flame around the room, rotting through
the floorboards, betel-stained teeth, I heard the still small voice calling
me by my name without sounding a syllable. There is a spring
in the heart of me, ice floes flow from my chest to my bones.
Thick black smoke cradles me like a lover and I follow
the still small voice all the way to the origin of the waters.