Embers Never Sleep

Embers Never Sleep


The first campfire was ignited half a century ago.
Time flew for the arsonist, but the flame would burn too slow.
The vision of a distant future — too dimly lit to see —
all contorted in the climbing heat — was all but lost to me.

We strive to stoke the perfect flame, the light to shine our way.
But bonfires of drama and senseless loss blot out the day
and the crackling of regret rarely takes the time to pay
tribute to the joys and triumphs risen from decay.

Some — unwittingly — pour on the water and unleash the killing wind,
not watching where they tread nor caring when they’ve sinned.
They kick through the ash and embers, preoccupied and blind,
focused upon their inner zombie and those who were unkind.

I am the ashes on their tongues. I am the sparks upon their soles.
I call out from musty clouds and gritty sandals and cooling holes
till there’s no song left to comfort the tireless, undying flame —
no reason to warm my hands in the heat of folly and blame.

We camp around the fires of Heaven and Hell and Endless Miles.
We sing praises to disfigured memories and relentless, ancient smiles.
And when the light has faded, we make the desperate, frightening leap
into the smoldering ashes — because the embers never sleep.


Gazzelle
Ash Wednesday
February 6, 2008