Samuel Minier:

Writing in the Dark

Teetering above the Pit on a string slip-knotted

between two shadowy spires immense with bone,

we dance. Juggle precious vases,

play catch with the baby

while below the ebony fires roar from unseen forges

sticky with the wafting stench of the roasted-alive.

Smells like chicken. We cackle,

flap our arms, jump to shake the world.

A chuckle thick as magma arises, oozing skyward

to clash with the furiously righteous lightening

And we keep up the laughter and teeters

while heaven and hell rage,

for fall or fly, it’s all flames baby.

All flames.