I have built my fire where the mud meets the sea
on black-gumbo clay, that keeps water from land
with driftwood, branches and the boughs of old trees.
All gathered and piled with the work of my hand.
To comfort this soul from chilled wind that age brings
to cut through night as a flickering fire can.
I sit and ponder like the fate of man's dreams
rest on my shoulders or was lied at my feet
as I gape back towards life’s shifting extremes.
My bright flames of driftwood burns long past their peak.
Much comfort I found in the heat of His blaze
I pray to my Lord that my faith is not weak
as my driftwood fire slowly but surely fades
while night pulls inward to the darkness of graves.