“Phoenix Logic”

The flame which burns you

is the flame that warms you.

The dry winter,

chapping soft lips and rugged earth,

gives way to a wet spring

invigorating the nose and breezy air.

Brown bears shuffle

their cramped, clawed carpet feet from

the mouths of oppressively dark dens,

like bold children struggling

from their mothers’ painful cocoons.

The clock on the kitchen wall

ticked too fast during Christmas cheer,

ticked too slow during the blizzard fear,

but now,

the numbers comet from the glass prison

as my freed mind dreams of approaching summer stars.

The river runs smoothly like fresh blood,

pouring into empty tombs of basins.

Poverty digs holes into your hands and money.

Yet poor people know they’ll ascend.

Broken hearts rewind whole

when the eyes catch shattered faces.

Though my red eyes washed themselves in grief,

the restless sick now descend into sleepy healing.

So I think of things like these,

as I lie on my bed,

warring to breathe,

waiting for this endless shadow to finally come.

Yet how is it endless?

Did pain not give to pleasure?

Did laughter not trump weeping?

For every death there is another birth.

My flesh will become warming flame,

for it was fashioned by burning flame.

 

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“Fire Dance”

Holy Fire!
Hear my cry!
The world is too wet with sentiment!

The tears of the unjust
have flooded the flower fields
to where characters can’t grow!
The moral stem of them
will not shoot and bud,
for the foggy clouds of indecision
keep the sunlight from raising examples.

As I wave my fingers,
wave your solar flares,
Ancient Judge!
Let fireballs lick the swamps
and wetlands where the people
lazily wallow in the mire.
Singe their skin, making them run
in repentance.

Holy Fire!
Hear my cry!
Fling your ember meteors,
smashing the buildings to the earth!
For mankind now erects many Babels!

Starving children,
traitorous kinsmen,
liars that lead,
crimes aquitted.
Oh Holy Fire!
Why is there no recompense?
Their souls are soaked with apathy.

See how I run in circles,
stamping my feet in the mud,
for a time that once was,
for the days when the streets
were filled with wicked blood!
Life was simpler then,
for enemies could be discerned.

Look, volcanic victor!
I wave the conductor,
the baton of my hate!
Hear my cry,
hear my plea!

Remold the world in fury,
dry the land of all presumption,
burn sin from their bodies.
And when they cry for pity,
those who will not turn
from the corrupted water,
hear not their prayer!
Answer their begging
with a flick of flame,
turning their tongues to dust.

For it is only fair,
it is only just.

“The Candle”

“Does that boy know
of the flame that never dies?”
wondered the pastor.

With his godly, holy, perfectly
staunch voice, he told the boy
“My son, do not light the candle,
lest your house burn down
and you sit in ashes,
being abandoned by your flame.”

The boy,
trusting the pastor,
who always had his house lit righteously,
sat in his house,
no candle lit,
maybe happy.

Yet one day,
someone else,
unexpectedly,
lit the candle;

and the light of that candle
warmed his home
with a dreamy warmth;
oh how it glowed!
The only thing he
seemed to see
was how it lit
his furnishings.
He even thought it could
give light to the soul.

But there came a time
when the flame did rage,
just like the pastor said.
His house did burn down,
enveloped by fiery zeal;
the boy sat in ash,
fearfully wondering
if he had ever really known
how to hold a candle.

The pastor,
maybe sad,
admonished the boy
to build another house,
on a straight and
painfully narrow lane,
furnished with a candle lit rightly.

Yet he was shocked
to see the boy smiling,
sitting in blissful embers,
looking as though something was lit
inside his house.

It’s just too bad
the pastor knows nothing
of the flame that never dies.