Sunday 5 January 2014

Spasms

A dimmer switch I couldn't be,
Flickering till the filament bust.
Unfulfilled spark round bits of rust,
switching off so easily.

In cave men times I'd be a fire,
Cursing at my ember glow,
whistling with a hollow puff,
remembering what it was to grow and
roar and be a fire again.

To have men chant and women thud,
praise my warmth and call it home.
The comfort that it hurts to touch.
A symbol in the dark.

Not some faltering spark,
spitting out what death will choke
- spasms of unthinking heart.