The Fire

I am the penitent fire, The smoldering answer to the final question, The World Host, The vibrant colors in your eyes, And yet... I spill tragedy everywhere. I rail and rage against the bars in my mind, recklessly tearing thoughts as they occur, watering love as I dismiss the act; the pail heavy and wet, but I'm not carrying all of it. The child I help carries it with me. He is 14-years-old and has tumors all over his brain. He loves walkie-talkies and bugs. And neither of us wanna water the damn plants. (Though we do it and now we have shared in something.) Battling against our thoughts we secretly embrace the process of life. And we will walk back to our special classroom in and through the Transitional Light, the peace falling through the air like unfiltered grace, the pear-scented morning of a school day swirling all around... And then last night I sit beside a woman my age, and the peace that has sat like a lake rises to a pulpy gall as I recognize the vibrant colors in her eyes as my birthplace and beacon through the smoke of the immense fire of life I am even now burning, burning off. Walk with me now, through the blaze, as the blaze...