Have I not written words
sung of fires and stars?
I would like to think so.
The world brings smite to shallow slumber
each time I begin to close my eyes.
Yet it is only in my sleep,
that a quiet night can
finally come to rest.
Dreams cannot run from a nightmare though.
A light somewhere in my doze has sparked embers
in the midst of snow.
Poems have gone past,
well into all my nights
and wood burning breaths.
Until the calm of an embracing
orange glow set into my pen,
did I know the strength of a breath against sparks.
The the shrouded gaze I finally hold close to my eyes;
the burnings of hopes and desire
were only for the days where trees were scarce.
Dessicated spectacles have shaded old growth.
Plenty to burn,
more light to see the shadows
that engulf the ground.
The very dead branches I once let rot,
have come to illuminate
all the dark nights.