This night is colder than I remember. I have walked these woods for months now. I know the trails. The trees. The bite of the cold.
I have grown, though lost some pleasures. My physical discomfort, my shaking hands, the price of entry for becoming a better man.
I’ve learned to set up camp beneath the types of trees that would give the younger me nightmares. And while their branches do well to catch the snow, catching dreams is not their strong suit.
So I stave off sleep, and again gather wood. Though its been so long since a fire has caught, I know this time will not be for naught. And I sit down to build a fire, trying to work faster than the the thoughts my mind gathers. But I’m too late.
I always pray the spark will catch.
The excitement, the anticipation, is always.
Looking forward. Longing. Imagining.
I never look to let the spark go.
The true power in flame
Lies in the darkness
From which it sprang
Have you tasted the black?
Have you had the sun stolen
With no promise of it coming back?
It will drive you wild
You will grovel and cry
Scrape anything together
For promise of
Though strategies won’t make anything
Or not you feel you deserve
These pages have all been written
Long before your nerves
Down to the last letter
Their Purpose was never concerned about making you feel better
A fire imagined only keeps warm
Those who live a life as fabricated
As the flames that were supposed to lick
These frosted fingers
A spark put out was never meant to burn
It obviously did not take the lessons learned
In spark school and put them to good use
It was too busy acting cool and being a douche
So why the crying? Why the self-abuse?
Don’t we all really long for truth?
And I know the cold is more real
Than the warmth an imagined douche fire
Could ever make me feel.
I can’t wait
I can’t stand
To see imagined criteria
Unmet by time’s sand
The fire will come
The flames will set me free
It will be meant, heaven sent
Warming the cold and straightening the bent
Sparks adept at being sparks
Will have more bite and less bark
Will put an end to this cold and death to this dark
Unless smothered in our frustrations
If it doesn’t just perfectly hit our mark
I grasp for the plannable
Without realizing that everything is flammable!
My breath, it slows
As I see a spark catch
Through the snow
If I let it, it could end all
The worry of death, the great fall
Then my focus, my writing
The thoughts for which I’ve been fighting
Slip out the door
My cry of delight drowned out by my sorrow
As I curse and forget what burned out sparks are for
To keep us cold
That notion though
It grows so old
But one thought again makes me bold
The fire will come
Not to thaw my cold fingers
Nor for my visions and hope
But perhaps for my willingness to sit in silence
After you spoke
Maybe to do what fire does best
To burn, and forget the rest