Don’t let the mind build fires in the dark,
Where heavy thoughts leave a burning mark.
They say that the worry that tugs at your sleeve
Is a pyre waiting for you to grieve.
It consumes without heat, with a hollow sound,
Turning your spirit to ash on the ground.
You’ve walked the miles in the sun’s heavy glare,
Dragging the plough through the stagnant, thick air.
Months of the labour, the sweat, and the grit,
Yielding more strength than the candle you lit.
Yet one flash of anger, a spark in the chest,
Steals from the spirit its promise of rest.
We break our backs under the harvest moon,
Humming a tired, productive tune.
We mend the fences, we gather the grain,
Finding a solace in the ache and the pain.
For work is a bridge that leads to the day,
While worry just stands in the light of the way.
So lay down the baggage, the ghosts in the hall,
Don’t let the shadow make you feel small.
A moment of rage costs more than the years
Spent working the fields through the sweat and the tears.
Be kind to the vessel, be gentle, be slow,
And let the cold pyre extinguish its glow.
Where molten sunset bleeds across the lake,
A single rose ignites in golden fire,
Her silken petals flushed with amber wake.
She crowns the water like a living pyre,
Each layered heart ablaze with liquid light,
While trembling ripples chase the sun's desire.
Pink sisters drift in shy, reflected might--
Their velvet heads aglow on mirrored glass,
As emerald lily pads in silence write
A secret map of shadow, gleam, and brass,
Small lotus lanterns flicker, ruby-bright,
And cast warm halos where the darkness mass.
The distant mountains blush in violet night,
Their jagged crowns still drinking dying rays,
As every ripple sings the fading light.
Yet one great rose, in radiant display,
Drinks deep the sky's last wine and holds the day.
The notion engulfs my conscience.
It raises a question, I fail to answer.
They say, the body remains,
Whilst the soul departs.
A claim backed by none.
How do I know it's not trapped?
The emotions I endure today,
Magnified and unbearable.
The scorching sun,
A glass of lava poured over my body.
How do I lie on a pyre,
With hundreds of woods burning beneath?
Once contemplated burial.
Yet how I ignore,
The revulsion of crawling maggots.
Feeding on my brain.
Fading consciousness heralds the stench,
Declaring the emergence of decay.
The eternal peace is agonising,
Quivers, petrifies and shatters rationalization.
Though I'm acquainted with it.
I saw it, I knew it,
Nevertheless I attempted to evade it.
Why do I deny surrender then?
It is a race,
And death, the destined victor.
Age is the vessel I am aboard,
sailing forward, yet no reversal.
Not a glimpse of the past I discovered,
What is left of me that I'm afraid to die?
burning sea dragon
viking kings funeral pyre
mourners watch from shore
Written: July 30, for contest Sponsored by: Rob Carmack
**************
I sketch your pedigree in marrow script,
each speech slice out of salt spines—
No ledger can fetter the flow of flame,
or control the smell of storm-born mind.
Wombs are pedestals blazed by pyre,
where armor converts into full ember.
The lightning danced all through the night
To wrought a festival of fire
That put to torch in blackened blight,
And scorched the forest like a pyre
Now, petroglyphs of nature’s arts
In splotchy ash ‘cross craggy scarp,
Are scarred background to blackened ghosts
Now frozen in escapement’s warp.
The energy of blackened woods
And flora from the forest floor
Has left behind the fertile goods
Of nascence sown, as evermore.
One day,
On a blissful Wednesday,
I crawl up the moon to cry away.
Dark night,
Take me away with the light,
Keep sailing through the storm with all my might.
Silence the dweller,
While roses for the pyre wither,
And all my hopes shatter.
You've meant so deeply much; within my desire
If I could present a world or build an empire
It would be so easy to secretly conspire
In a way that you would not find hard to admire
Happiness for me; sought just nurturing your purist fire
You see my genuine intentions; carrying us higher
We are beyond me; so far past what I wantingly require
Viewing you satisfied; fuels me to wondrously aspire
A devotion of which I will sleeplessly never overtire
My differing notion; I'm just resolved; to her eternal pyre
How strident are their screams, 'Ceasefire!'
~ adding fuel to the funeral pyre ...
She laid her emotions on a pyre.
Took a torch and lit a flame.
A gust of wind kidnapped them,
Taking them into the sky.
Watching as her desires flew away.
A smile hinted in her eyes.
your first kiss
turn flocks of birds
in thoughts
in blood
in the bones
they all create their nest inside me
as if I were
another season
or maybe they desire
from the poisoned fruit
escape key for those
who will ask me regarding
Immortality
in waltz step on the pyre
the flight is burning
the freedom
the longing.
Intentions fall akin to ashes on the pyre.
Of our procrastination quixotic fire
We've got a penchant for delay and distraction.
A puerile fear of routine and reaction.
But in our deepest hearts, we glow.
Time is a precious commodity to sow.
But we still apply it to just toss it away.
Thinking that tomorrow will start a fresh day
We piddle with excuses and justify.
Our lack of progress and letting scope pass us by
But the truth is, we're only cheating ourselves.
By neglecting our dreams and putting them on shelves
So let us rise from the ashes of our pyre.
And ignite a fresh flame of desire.
Let's attempt to alter our current reality.
And will cease to be hindered by frugality.
Life is too precious to waste away.
On diddle misguided play
Let us grapple with the day and bear it count.
If you live decently, the strain won't mount.
No, No, No please stop this
I screamed aloud
Fire started igniting my whole body
I cried loud
Please somebody help me out
Why nobody could hear
Why everyone act like I no longer exist there
I started feeling fear
Everyone is shaking my body and crying aloud
Now, I realize I lost
My everything forever
The one who loves me
May remember me for certain year
The one who dislike my existence
May be happy forever
Spark from Montezuma’s fire
Brought Gleemont closer to his desire
He watched his almost bride drink the potion
And fall down into the fire with sheer devotion
Why was she the one to be sacrificed?
He was angry at the gods, his love now sliced.
Gleemont crept closer to the pit with his club
He could hear the cheers of another warrior, Glub.
Their crops were now insured to be terrific this year.
His almost bride had not given a cry or shown any fear.
Brave, this beauty who had been given to them freely.
Gleemont turned to his old enemy Reely.
Reely’s eye’s got darker, and they got into fighter stance.
Gleemont was hoping to die; now he had a good chance.
Their battle was bloody and lasted for almost an hour.
Gleemont was disappointed when the war turned sour.
He was hoping to die and join his almost bride tonight.
But alas, his warrior soul kicked in, and he won the fight.
So his almost bride went to heaven, where she now dwells.
And Gleemont began the rest of his life, which felt like hells.
' Such sinful acts would awake the inviting darkness into the fervent misdeeds of carnal lust, that burn in the heat of an ever raging pyre; where the scorching heat is a consuming hell of pleasure to those who crave in the tinder of its wanting rebellion. '.
Alfredo Gonzales ©
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