I wrote poem this evening after some serious searching of my soul over the course of the last few weeks.
All too quickly, and too repeatedly, I find myself among the coals. Deciding why on a whim and choosing action based on forward motion. Stepping on the coals because they are hot and because they have burned me. Experiencing it. Submitting to it. Are we all just debris?
hot coals
i can smell the sulfur of my past
i can feel the heat beneath my feet
Hot.
Coals.
begging me to go
begging me to stay
kissing my soul until it quenches itself
Ashes.
Scars.
tiny remains of who i used to be.
pilot light?
strike it
Hot.
Coals.
flame to gas and action
reaction begs the question
and i am left in the debris
realizing the debris is me
nothing left but
Hot.
Coals.
About The Photo:
I call it "traddiction," and I took it at a wonderful little dive bar literally called The Flea, and found it a perfectly fitting compliment given the specific genesis of this poem.
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