as sure as largest grief dies while smallest nostalgia grows and grows
as sure as we must relish the now, like one nurtures embers to living flame
lest the present moments slip past all unnoticed, written in cold stone
self-awareness is flammable; let’s make use of it as tender
then add some newspaper – it’s not cheating – and watch its words crackle into ash
but no magazines… we don’t want the glossy sizzle and stinky smoke of the overly self-conscious.
now sticks alight, now bigger sticks, whole branches, logs, a pallet…
what’s this someone has brought to burn? A wooden door!
how the doorknob glows with heat!
I resist the urge to grasp it, turn, pull
and enter, surrendering
my self whole to the fire