Archives for posts with tag: fire

I

Come in, I say, even though we’re outside

         come in. Our own little world

where the sun still shines—

                                    the sky in your eyes—

but no one else is here. Just us

and some coffee

and a half-empty pouch of tobacco, enough

              to get me through the weekend.

 

I can see my self in your eyes.

                                    Does that

                                    make me vain?

I ask.

         You blush. Shades of pale red surfacing

on your porcelain skin. You’re beautiful.

                                    Does it?

Furrowed brow, you look away. Silence. Unmoving.

I roll a cigarette and place it under a lighter in front of you

                  and roll another. You light mine then yours,

staring

                                    into the dark distance.

 

II

A fire burning warmly in a clearing surrounded

         by autumnal foliage.

                           Come sit with me.

You do. You sit. You don’t look cold

         Aren’t you cold? You don’t answer

                                    but stare into the flames,

mind lost in thought. Where are you? I ask,

                                    silently.

Face flushed, you’re warm. Your own fire

         burns brightly

                           somewhere.

You came here as a favour

to see what you could see

         in my flames, beautiful pyromancer.

                           You’ll leave soon. I know this.

What if will always lose to what is,

and someone waits at your own fire wondering where

                  you’ve gone.

 

III

Glass walls and social constructs, that’s all

that separates us. That

                  and an insurmountable distance measured

by an unrequited infatuation, and all the words

                           I never said or wrote.

But one day, it might be different.

                  One day, I might write you

and tell you all the things I want to tell you.

                           One day, we might meet under desirous circumstances

and the dry leaves and the branches

will be devoured by the flame

and together we’ll watch it burn.

                                    One day.

Light fades into dark,

the hues of dusk wash over the horizon leaving

a moonless sky blanketing

the world,

my world.

 

I rise from a burnt out fire,

from a now-vacant warmth,

charred and growing ever colder,

not even enough remains

to use to light the path

that lies ahead.

 

I walk alone,

in spite of the belief—in spite

of the hand—I once

held.

 

In the dark

and in the cold,

there is no solace,

only resignation

to the dark and cold reality

that dreams of love

are simply delusions

conjured from the infection

of hope.

 

The deafening roar of silence
smothers the flame;

it burns,
fighting for words
in the dead air of night;

its light
wavers, as the dark
encroaches, as the cold
assails the red-yellow licks
of the fire,

creeping like an inevitable tide,
wave after wave — unstoppable? — no mind
to relent, no thought given
to what fuels the flames.

They sputter, those flames, but
endure, the light of the present
fighting to illuminate
the path
into that clouded,
unknown
future.

 

 

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