I knew that
it would burn
but I wanted
one more chance
to feel the heat.

Fire is as fire
does–it turns
to ashes all
it loves.

Up the narrow
path I went
riding shotgun
on my art–

the god ahead
was not a god
but just a man.

Inside the flame
I could not hear
whose name
he called;

I thought it mine
but I was wrong–
the song was beautiful
but it was not my song.

A woman scorned
is just a woman
scorned but I am
so much more;

and so, I’ll keep
my hand inside
the flame

and he will never know
the stillness of my fire,
the beauty of my name.