Moon in a Steel Fist

In my solitude, my
cushioned, straight-backed solitude, the
candle glares its contradiction.
Haloed heat on strong curled iron,
the moon captured in a steel fist,
yet it is a firework
dangerous to touch.
I watch time drip away before me
collecting in a pool of
delicate liquid heat, the
waxy skin on each tear drop
promises protection,
the glowing arrow, ready to be thrown.
I breathe in so deeply, so deeply,
I feel the warmth in my cavernous stomach,
I am hollow with light
I am swelling with light,
my sight is further.
My breath is a gentle breeze,
a ray of sun, like the
delicate yellow fingers that reach for my eyes.
I relax into the soft, golden warmth.
Waxy smooth; I am
swallowed into the
pulsing crackling centre.
It is warm love that melts any doubts.
I run through the flame,
I slip through the needle’s eye,
following the torch in the night.