put me on fire

when she swallowed a tear, 
she knew not where to bend or break,
then quietly she folded her arms and legs.
Into crimson, wrinkled paper she turned,
crumpled in triple folds, slowly she started to burn.
And no matter how much she cried,
the fire refused
to die.

Francis Bacon

1 comment:

dream walker said...

Dear Shraddha,
It feels like you wrote this one for me.