Poem 17 – Fire
The flames roar high
My mind races wild
Nothing is in its place
I must gather my life,
My creative soul
Cannot leave it behind
This is my mould
Papers,
Laptops
Memory sticks –
All my materials in the mix
Cannot leave anything behind
15 years cannot be for naught
Sitting on the grass,
Flames burning hot
Arms hold my words all mixed in the lot