© 2012 Steve King
All rights reserved
this fire begot something
to trim the leavings of the night:
ancient spirits in the smoke;
rekindled hope speaks from each tongue of flame;
ember upon ember,
old inclinations leap to light,
then sift their ashes through my heart again.
I know the fire shall shortly die,
just as all regret is said to wane.
I taste these ashes one more time,
and know there is no reason to complain.
A taste of ashes may remain,
but no one ever need explain;
I would relive it all the same,and take no moment to complain