"Embers of Desire"
A Wing of Fire's Soaring Flight in the Forge of Passion
In the forge of passion, where flames aspire,
A wing of fire, fueled by deep desire.
In the crucible of longing, it takes flight,
A burning plume, a beacon in the night.
From embers born, in the heart's pyre,
A phoenix wing, ascending higher.
In the furnace of love, it finds its form,
A dance with flames, a tempest warm.
With feathers kissed by the tongues of fire,
It soars through dreams, a fervent lyre.
In the heated whispers of desire's breath,
It glides through the realms of life and death.
Bold and bright, in the furnace of yearning,
A wing of fire, fervor returning.
With every beat, a tale it sings,
Of passion's flight on fiery wings.
Yet, beware the blaze that love conceals,
For fire consumes, and desire reveals.
In the dance of flames, a risk untold,
A wing of fire, both fierce and bold.
In the crucible of hearts, let it aspire,
A wing of fire, aflame with desire.
Through the heat and the fervent pyre,
Love and passion, an eternal fire.
About the Creator
Mubashira Kachhot
Greetings, readers ! Let's embark on this journey together, where every article is a voyage into the extraordinary!
follow me on facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61553949811111
Keep reading
More stories from Mubashira Kachhot and writers in Poets and other communities.
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly3 days ago in Horror
Comments (1)
Oooo, this poem was so fiery! I loved it!