I’m not your lover

I’m a funeral pyre

We watch the smoke dance through the air

 

I’ve forgotten the way it burns

It shatters the charcoal

Their blades carve into the sky

 

It seems to have reappeared

A great flame from nowhere

Where will it be, come morning time?

While not too little,

It may be too late

It’s the apology you wish you could accept

 

It’s a young boy admiring

The fire he conjured

With foliage beneath his bare feet

 

There’s a figure tied up there,

Obscured by the distance

Like a photo from too far away

 

I haven’t seen him

At least to my knowledge,

Since before he needed to be carried

 

My eyes find the twigs 

And malnourished leaves

It’s fuel and then it’s not

 

The heat engulfs us

While It feeds us the lie

We can sleep whenever we’re tired

 

But what is it, lovely 

That stains your eyes?

Is it making a martyr of me?

 

It’s smiles like a gift

To help you forget

What will it be come morning time?