“Cave of Shadows” by Sun

Embers of faded flames 

form false-new fires;

emerging orange, a faint heat.

They kindle us and dwindle

us, and yes, a xenial zephyr

can help a hearty flame grow, but

an abrasive breath can chill the fire like snow.

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And does anyone truly recover?

Tinder, the hand feeds us, if we’re lucky.

carefully, just enough digestible tough

that we swallow and smile instead of choke.

Too big a log too soon, You’re mother’s a whore,

and you’ll grow up to make her proud,

and a budding flame is prone to suffocate.

There are little flame-doctors, flame proctors,

flame coaxers and flame hoaxers, flame-fixers 

that offer an endless inferno of solutions and pollutions—

we collude and conspire, light our sacrificial pyre,

sit in the syrupy succor of sin; we burn out.

Some stick around and simmer—not burn—Embers.

then they birth a new spark;

little blossoming spark;

cold, cold, cold forever.