We are the burn but not the flame nor match
We're not the pipe or crucible, we're not
Tobacco, but somehow we are the burning.
The world's on fire, lit by a match that is
The smallest element i'the universe
That touches to our core without it coming
Near any part of us except our root,
Which catches flame within the heart of us.
And this, the fire that burns us makes an ember,
Produces smoke that wafts to seek out the
Remainder of the universe, to bond
Us to what we know and what we know not.
A match is lit up by an unseen hand
And held upon the tinder which ignites
The aromatic seasoned blend of sweet
Tobacco that comes for us, us to find,
To cling to, yet we're not of what we see.
Not any of these structures for the eye
We're not the crucible, nor the pipe bowl
In which life burns and heats and grows and gives.
What are we if none of these things above,
If not the very burning in itself
And so we are, and so we are, and so
The whole while yet we are none of those things.
YOU ARE READING
The Request Book
PoetryThis book of poems contains my poems written to your requests (including, in some cases, requests that you did not make and that I imagined). Anyone may make a request for a poem on any subject and I will do my best. Please leave a comment and I w...
