Member-only story
The Story of my Life in Fire and Wax.
The flame has no agenda. Not at all.
She just hangs on to the wick
with her feet and heats
the softening wax
that feeds her.
The wax
has no agenda
either. She raises her
melting wings to the dark,
and weeps herself into the tableau
of past deeds and choices around her.
When I’m sane, I try to be good,
to secure my feet near the wick,
to stand up straight in the center
and shed light in the darkness.
When I’m whole, I remember that I’m already good.
That my wings fuel the flame, and die by it, and
the heat shows the way, and the darkness
pockets it, and no one is the wiser.
The mess all around me is my
sacred, fragile, selfish,
generous, damage-
doing, precious
short,
short
life.
