Things I Found
When writing sifts
through
whatever anchors
the weight in my breath,
I
oftentimes
let need crown
one above the rest.
Here I begin:
The fire outside
subdued
the fire within.
Passions beaten
into submission
by loss.
Still—
held in check
by the water
stifling the blaze,
gutting my house.
Hmm, my house.
Mine.
Me.
The wet soot
familiar in a way
I did not expect.
Cool.
Comforting
in the debris.
I and the soot
know ending.
Blackened walls,
merged, resolute
to not fall.
Still standing—brittle.
Still standing—hollow.
Still standing—useless.
Still standing—me.
The black cake
beneath my feet
marks a path
of many circles,
looping,
going nowhere
in particular.
Measuring space
more than time.
Residual smoke
forcing its way inward—
the burn,
the cough,
enough.
A golden flicker
partly hidden
under the black carpet
calls for notice.
The medal remained
unscathed
on the victorious walls.
Still standing—scarred.
Still standing—resolved.
Still standing—
Me.
