The Dying Fire

Most of my life
I have only been able to write
When I am sad

When the world is most empty
and without a warm corner
I would light fires with analogy

Beating drums of stanzas
to keep the beasts in the shadows
that are circling my camp

Swinging sticks of adjectives
The thumping of these lyrics
Reminding me that

My heart still beats

When it is all but shattered
and crumbling like the cinders
in that dying flame

Building lean-tos with synonyms
Shoddy and ill-matched
But it was enough

To at least
Shelter me from the stinging winds
of isolation

But does little
to hide my scent
from the hungry howls of monsters
That lurk just out of view

I find my drums beat softer now
My timber and thorns
That I once beat against barren trees
Marking my way home

Turned to gentle tendrils
Vines that persevere
Succulents and moss that pad the trails
That was once nothing
But jagged stone

(That tore at the tender parts of me
Leaving scarlet trails back to home)

A wasteland turned to fae

The tattered treeline
That was my hiding place
Now a garden full of green

The beating of drums now replaced
With a soft trilling
As the fire crackles

And fades away.