“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.