Walk through the fire,
let your skin be burnt to the bone
bite your feast, no tear moistens your eyelid
be brave in search of your grave
silence be the patch to cover your mouth
music not aloud when the hero is mourned
ashes as snow flakes are dancing around
slowly covering holes where eyeballs should be
pain itself had left this body,
this cathedral has no echoes anymore
Walk through the fire, my soul
Your flesh has no smell
Fly over us,
gravity demons betrayed by hell
If the film director Sam Raimi’s cinematic output could be rendered into poetry then I’m sure it would look uncannily something like Iulia’s , “Walk through the fire”. Like Raimi ,(but not some other similar horror genre director such as George Romero,) this poem plays ,in a whitesheet draped over kind of way, with scariness.Fanciful ,dabbling coyly with wit and nicely constructed it only lets the reader’s expectations down in the very last line-again very much like Raimi- the conclusion has too much of the double-barrel shotgun blast about it to complement the rest of the poem’s previous subtlety.