Flame.

I am here, I'm alive,
at the hour, I feel.
Like I've clawed out this hole,
like I've dreamed something real.

Once cornered by concrete and boxes of guilt,
now lying on morning, on fresh China silk.

No witness to see, not now nor' before.
Just the sky and the birds, who sing at cloud nines door.

I am here, I'm alive,
though the dead call my name.
And I'm watching the sun,
and like me, we both flame.


I wrote this a couple of years ago, so be easy on me.

Welcome to YWS!

Don't be embarrassed about old work; they are a good way of measuring just how far we've come. No one just starts writing well, it takes plenty of practice and lots of failures.

I think the thing that this poem needs is more characterization. The narrators character isn't really delved into too deeply and the imagery doesn't really solidify anything. If we had that, then we would be able to see exactly how the narrator is aflame, as the sun.

I'm afraid I don't know the story well enough to make suggestions, so I hope this helps.

this is pretty good, I liked the imagery.