“Rage Against the Dying of the Light”

I feel at home within the fellowship of a campfire.

Sharing heat, and time, and contemplation.

The flames dance willfully chaotic in a ceaseless search for oxygen.

The glow of friendly faces track cyclical and morph into all the souls that comprise them.

Life, hung partially on shadow, and partially on the revelation of determined lines.

These are the scars of living.

They take on a primordial glow and flash glimpses of an angelic hierarchy, as well as the devilry of humanity.

Appearances, morphing in and out of being,

Waiting on strong sooty wisps to carry them up into the heavens.

The flames growing with enthusiasm,

Devouring all within the circle.

A conical confessional, face to face, concealed within a fluid ambiguity of rising smoke.

Shadows and light, dance with the doubts and revelations.

All sipping gingerly of potions, waiting for transformation.

A phalanx of phoenixes, ready for resurrection.

Realizing the fire will still burn on,

In spite of, in spite of, in spite of…intervention.

Surely others will keep the fire burning,

And ponder the imponderable.

The miracle of perceiving an illusion,

Is quite a gift.

Throw another log on the fire.

It needs more friends, more oxygen, more light.