Embers
Intuition flares,
prancing in ostentatious circles,
feather-tip proud.
Lugubrious grey wigs
speckle gregariously
bedecked by flamboyant gems:
they flicker frustratingly
in stifled Regency ballrooms.
Our embers, in contrast,
are quiet. Shushed.
They wallow in dark corners,
hidden from prying eyes.
Predators.
Our collective eyelid
flutters closed:
too shy, subduing to privacy.
A silent tear streaks
our collectively cold face.
Science ensnares our senses,
making ordinary life dim -
blindingly darkened;
teetering on Boredom’s knife edge –
we long to carve it free;
infuse new scarlet veins
into its unthinking, meaty flesh,
stoking a smothered fire,
rekindling its earthy,
endearing embers.
Copyright © Emma Wells | Year Posted 2020
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