Flies, bees, fireflies whirr in summer heat
circulating like blood in a heart, pumping
much needed oxygen to weary limbs
that would die without air

What stays, stands near,
surrounds, envelops the air,
the outline of our skin?

Dig a hole, build a fire pit,
watch flames consume wood
and throw all manner of discards
into the heap

Dig a deeper hole
Fill it with ash

/ Words have left me /

Throw silence into the fire. Answers
are negotiable, sediment, filtered rubbish.

The flickering blaze is a strange drumbeat,
uneven rhythm, lack of solid time,
a composition no one soul
can transform into a timed melody
of actual meaningful song

Offices of fire, licking air,
reaching for something to ignite

The sting of days burns holes
upstairs, downstairs
in circular patterns

For some a reality,
for others, an austere notion,
arrows aimed toward an unknown target in the sky

// no such target—
an ending decayed—
while we burn days,
stars die by the millions //

Is it a barren desert,
or thirst provoking the soul?

Lakes all around,
so many drowning—
yet bone dry—

cold cannot slake thirst

Thirst needs water
Fires die submerged



© prasanta  –  August 2018

picture source: unsplash