when ugly feelings made for beautiful poems

Awakened in the hours I tire

Taking ash and making fire

Ash of bones and aging strife

Cheating death and making life

Death that chills the bony spine

Of books that rot and words that rhyme

Chills that bite like frigid cold

And burn like flames of red and gold

Gold from rocks and flowers that bloom

From tiny seeds in dirty tombs

Black as ink on paper white

Dark succumbing to the light

But only when I write