A Poem: "Small-voiced"

Small-voiced
By Jenna Reimer

I live in a sliver of Time
Where no Hell frightens me,
Where a glorious fire ignites
Outside my window
And hisses an insufferable cry
Making everything red:
My skin is rose-red,
The silhouette on the floor,
The raining ashes
And my pale hands are red,
Gripping the window sill-
Its cracked wood gripping
Specks of fire.

I am uncertain not fearful,
But uncertainty may be
My only emotion.

Sleep Till Death

Striking from hell’s angry grave,
We are aloft the white peaks of a mad sea.
While shells of skulls and earth remain,
The flesh of bone perishes amid the furry.

The Peril of Virtue

Hope is the one
Who fools us all.
The wake of an inferno;
it engulfs our trembling
lungs like a seething furnace
who burns its coal
in a fury of kindling.

It sprays fumes of purple haze
And spews a stream of flame
From a flamed vent
Far too heavy to conquer.
Cobalt ashes and a singing blaze
Silence the sound of reason,
Flogging our delirium.

A desolate sanctuary
For screeching lambs
Misguided into a wasted league,
Aloft the desperation of fate,
Are propelled into a wrath
Of void and spellbound red.

This fathomless beast becomes
our slumber and our exile.