Lighter in one hand
A carnation in the other
And I am always feeling the
Phantom rot that itches where it starts--
Searing where it coalesces.

In my mind the sound cuts
Crisp, clear. The clink of a lighter.
In my mind I am picturing the way
A carnation burns.

The petals like pink skirts
The kind that sings with the winds
Willowy, twirly.
And it would not burn easily.

A carnation would fight flame
With an equally bright, ferocious light.
It would refuse to die.
Indignant
To its last petal. Even in death, the skirts hold its shape.
Vehement.
In my mind the gentle things are always so

Strong.
So imagine my surprise
When all the soft things I hold
Shatter in my iron grasp.
My unforgiving gaze is molten
Nothing ever stands a chance in its sight.
I am as relentless as the scenes I imagine.

Even the strong things become dogged
From my insistence alone.
Who could ever keep up
To an unyielding force
Challenge me and win--still whole, unmarred
Who could experience me
And come out the other side
Unscathed.