210 Years

For twenty-one decades I could live,

And my bones wouldn’t set into stone,

As there is a crime I must contrive,

And it is a crime I can’t offer to atone –

For these veins of mine can remain untried

As much as be allowed to run cold;

Not whilst their fierce heat inside

Blazes high in Porphyronic haze

That can’t be alchemised or sold

At the hearth of sin, sparks catch,

Lapping their flames into bliss

Below the melting point akin to wrath,

Each fervent bubble, stir and hiss

Testament to degree lust-twinned,

Innocent and yearning for the hand

That first struck the match:

Whose owner, it is said,

Lit the inferno, then vigorously fanned –

Only to frame the fire,

And for a seeming century sit back



Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

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