Mine

Lying at the base of a flight of darkened stairs
To each his own, I suppose
But this is not mine
With Life blossoming on every inch of this blackened prairie
of dead grass and dried up words
The fire poured from your mouth so quickly
not even your lies could contain it
It caught like tinder
the kiss of flint and a thousand years shrivels up
Folding in on itself as if it never existed
curling at the edges
Crumbling dreams, hopes, nightmares
fine gunpowder
How is it possible to love with hands
covering the valves through which they escape?