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the poetry of Charles Fry

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21 April 1997

of being burned at the stake

Fire is such a small and pretty word
which blatantly fails to communicate
the intense pain of the flames
enveloping me and the wooden pole
to which I am tied.

Tight is also a small though harder word
yet is rather unapt in describing
the convulsions in my stomach as I
watch the glowing cinders
sadistically massage my feet.

Faith is a very small and simple word
that only awkwardly explains
the presence of the three angels
who came down to save me from
the heat and the torment and the death

of being burned at the stake.

 forgotten memories   of being burned at the stake   sweet dreams   sharing   hand-in-hand   the stranger   hidden courtyards   holding You   princess   happy day   loneliness   fragile, handle with care   my small trip to the cement factory   dedication   this record is for You   the day that I cried   Last night I woke up under my bed.   my silver Dancing shoes   Man my heart tears.   the three things   strait jackeght   like you   abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz   Fire cooks me   Princess Alexandra:  A Little Story   cats up cat twice   sweet rain water   little children   my heart   How blind I am in wooden glasses.   I know she's crying cause it stains her voice,   Dear Family,   I pound at my heart   We run away from the ice cream truck   purple sunset   J. Elephant   so i walk up to you with this   the Soul queen   so, you say that i do not speak   window   dear sweet old Ordinary   i am a Harp