There is fire in my veins, consuming me. It is the ice against my back, the ground on my feet, it is the air in my lungs. there are stories io must write, characters to kill, and to make so alive that they live more then those who have made me write them. my flesh is turning in it's selfs, wanting those flames, drinking them in, that water that run=s solid across my skin. my ears fill with its voice, crying in the night, the only thing i can hear is the only flaqvor in my mouth. the heavy breathhing of the wind against my neck, the moist lips of the spring on my head, the soft tutch of roses against my arms. my breath grows short, my mind draws a blank. i shiver in this bitter cold of the winter that falls in july. i weep for loss and sing for gain. i tremble in my shadows as i glide in my light. how i watch them dancing on the wall there. they are my confessions. what beauty they have brought to me.
-jordan kaine
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