Burn And Rage Poem by Eric Cockrell

alone...
in a room of voices,
dirty curtains sweating,
bodies without heat!

you buried me,
a 100 miles back...
poured milk on my grave,
and answered the phone.

but even the scar throbs,
the moon calls...
and the fire in the fugitive field,
burns down.

old men tell stories,
old poets burn and rage...
run with wolves, mad and hungry,
for touch, skin, and need!

when the soul becomes a tongue,
and fingers break windows.
the water in the well boils,
owls tremble and undress.

the hand that calls rain...
shakes, lights a smoke!
sweat sings on the pillow,
the scent of wild flowers.

travelling the night...
looking for a match!