I am a self-proclaimed house poet
My words rotate in flames and keep my theatre heart alight
They echo orange risen suns
In the clandestine plains of abandoned arches
Without companionship, without a hero
Whirling on the brim of nebulous blackness.

My words have strength to erupt volcanoes
And reveal scorching waves of agony
And mourning in the dark pit of your soul
At midnight, when the moon creates metallic light on the descending clouds
I open my blinds with frozen hands brittle and cracked
Seeking the face of God and the smoking rays of twilight
To dissolve eternally the enemy of the poetess; self-doubt