To Marcy Howard
On a dark, September morning,
As the month, came to an end,
It seems that hell, opened up its doors,
And in an instant, I was forced to descend,
To view a woman, clothed in fire,
Burning from head to toe,
While the scene, slowly unfolded,
And I was forced, to watch her go.
A woman now beckons me to come,
To join a myriad of souls,
Yet every time, she extends her hand,
She forgets, the whisper told,
Once again, the future’s refused,
Though she promises, freedom from pain,
While the tears she cries, are tiny fires,
And they fall, like glowing rain.
In my dreams, she comes to me,
I feel her heat, as she draws near,
I see those beautiful, eyes of fire,
And I touch, her flaming tear,
She whispers to me, to hold her close,
And by her fire, I am consumed,
As every day, I wait for her,
So my soul, may be exhumed.
Though her touch, does surely burn,
I still hold her, every night,
And in that land, of fire and dreams,
Her fire’s mine, until the light,
As I hold her in the dark,
Heaven, is what I’m in,
And as the daylight, touches the sky,
Again its time, for hell to begin.