A Vision of Turmoil

There is red hot coals in view of where my heart should be.  The energy could fuel every train engine on TV.  I begin to draw with charcoal and create the shading that must be to be the lines, actually.  A raven flies above, and I wish to be hidden in his wings.  Am I the artist, or am I the model?  It is too confusing to be sure?  The words flow to find a healing that feels spiritual in the material realm.  Can I just convert an infinite violation, instead of naming the scarlet letter that should be on all in vicinity?  Today, universal guilt is becoming clear.  Maybe a stop to the excuses for abuses, and a beginning of a plan to extricate me from the hell that I know every day.  At this juncture my walls should be blood red, but they are merely tan with cob webs in the corners.  There is a chill in my room due to the fact that my window will not close.  Broken pieces are all I see, and this has never been the reality of my things.  Monsters do exist, and dwell in my cave.  I write to ignite, but also to set me free.  I can't leave the place where I am allowed to be.  In the dark, I see the footprints in the snow.  I now know that my heart is not an analogy.