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