We were only seventeen,
Deciding that we’d play a bit with fire —
The car became a treasure house,
A gateway to adulthood, and desire —
We pushed our way past all the trees
That lined our streets with doubt;
For one was on the outside in,
The other, inside out —
We drove around the world, it seemed:
Or thought the world around us surely turned —
But we were only seventeen,
And learned enough of fire to
Get burned
Fabulous
☺️
Damn, you’re an awesome poet.
Thank you.
You’re welcome.
Love this one. In youth, the fire burned hottest and the consequences were not imagined.
No, they weren’t, but they showed up all the same.