When the Village Burns

When the village burns

I think they’ll trample me

because I’m not a hero. I’m just

a human who watched the sky go red

and cursed myself for never learning how 

to stay afloat,

how to

breathe in the smoke and

make it through. 

I was just a poet

with ink vials, filled with my blood

and a pen, sharp like my old tongue.

Little lessons I’ve learned, like

worriers aren’t warriors

and 

poets never make it out alive.

I wanted to be a hero but I got melancholy instead. 

When the village burns, I think they’ll trample me 

because a quill is not a cavalry. 

About the Author

Haylie Belle is a poetry and fiction student whose work reflects the inner workings of credulous and passionate young minds. Filled with elegant wordage and reflections on the human heart, her writing is influenced by both deep emotion and cursory feeling alike. As well as crafting with words, she is an artist in every element, expanding her ranges of creativity beyond the page.