Static Friction

The moonless night is further shrouded in fog and smoke,
Each are sporadically illuminated by the light of the flames,
As the fire grow, higher and faster, hotter and stronger,
I stumble blind, helpless, and petrified, eyes stinging, throat burning,
Through the trees and brush, rocks and rivers, over well worn paths and bridges,
What was once peaceful is chaos, that which was safe now terrifies, the flames change all,
And yet I remain,
As the forest burns the flames reflect on the surface of my eyes,
And on my tears as they fall to the ground,
Preserving that on which the land but a moment longer before it too is consumed,
As it burns it becomes something terrible, something horrifyingly unfamiliar,
But it also brings new life, a fact which rises through my consciousness,
But is stopped by my fear like a chain around the neck of an angry dog,
A chain that is tied down to the anchor of the past,
To the sum of those moments when it was as it was,
And to the meaning it was thusly given and to the pleasure that meaning brought,
The anchor holds back hope, and life, and happiness, and everything that will be,
In favor of danger and dread, fear and uncertainty, hatred and anxiety,
But it holds me down, my feet firmly planted as the fire rages closer,
Searing my skin and burning my hair and clothes as it approaches, leaping from tree to tree,
My life, laid bare, crackles and burns, crumbles and collapses before me,
There is nothing to be done,
So with a sigh the chain breaks, and I step back before turning and walking away,
The fire will sink low and disappear and so will my memory of that place,
And in the weeks, months, and years that come, as it fades from my mind,
I will think less and less of it and someday when I have let myself forget,
I will remember again,
And I will journey again back to that strange but familiar landscape,
And it will be full of life and love, vitality and strength,
And I will live there and thrive there once more.

Climbing Trees

A climbing tree and a little weed,
could give me all the afternoons I need,
emerging from the cold, dead ground,
on a Tuesday afternoon.

The cemetery is full of life,
beauty tainted with human strife,
so here I sit,
inspired to write,
as the sun sinks into the ocean.

The trees feed off the human remains,
their thirst is quenched by the occasional rain,
the afternoon sun is useless until spring,
until then it shines only on death.

But unlike those of us with flesh,
And eyes and toes and thoughts and breath,
trees don't stay dead,
the spring comes and they are alive instead,
and so when it's warm I'll come again,
on a Tuesday afternoon.

Disingenuous Meditation

Break up the cold with a smoke,
it warms you up from the inside out,
breathe in deep and the lens of your thoughts,
dissolves to expose the world as it is,
bare, cold, dead, and frozen,
quiet, still, ready to be explored,
captured in the frame of your mind.

But only until the effects of the smoke,
dissipate with the heat of your breath,
your thoughts come flooding back in,
the world becomes, once again, a distraction,
awaiting your return, awaiting the light,
that only the glowing tip of the cigarette will bring.

Now the real work begins

Yesterday's elation has sunk and leveled off,

Maybe the novelty's just gone.

Yesterday they were clouds and I was flying,

Today it is fog, and I am wet and cold, exhausted and sad.

Stop, turn back, bring me home.