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Burn, burn. If I could burn
the flesh from where you stand
Cinder, ash, the freedom I yearn
out of reach of blue light’s land

Back, erase, yet flaws are cased,
confined to coded plate
Echoing waste, the fresh debased
lies heavy—a duplicitous slate

Scream, scream. In fury, I scream
think not of what was lost
Your new white page, your hideous dream
demands for nothing but cost

Burn, burn. If you could burn,
be stolen to your death
I’d celebrate in blank concern,
in joys of great excess
Your blue-gray mien, your paper-screen
knows only that of clouded sheen
Oh, how I wish to scorch you clean
just to reach one sweet serene

About Author

Gina Kotinek

Gina Kotinek is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of the SPOT Lit. She can usually be found hunched over her computer, reading, writing, or searching for the art of conquering carpal tunnel and tendonitis.