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,
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.