a milky yellow halo
pours from the vessel i have set beside me
and circles 'round its head like the clouds over a volcano
its wicks are charring, actively dying
roasted like roast beef in a Dutch oven for Sunday dinner
and yet i sit, and i enjoy its warmth.
when did humans become so greedy
and so enamored with fire
that we domesticated it
and kept it in small cylinders of potential
potential for light, clarity
potential for dread, lethality
is all we do at this point
not one big love affair
with Death itself?
YOU ARE READING
the archives - a poetry portfolio
PoezjaA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...
