many days that memory lane rebuilds
for the matchstick, gas, and striker addict
itching for his fixture of crash-and-burn
where fire and brimstone safely heals
anxious hearts in rites of passage
carrying a dream that most hands deter
I’ll start an ember beneath the surface
and forget the reign of disdaining thrill
step firm through flames as memory lane tilts..

I occasionally become lost in looking, and stagger into a daze for days
though, there’s no one who can count the amount of seconds in a gaze
I share what I cherish through frozen body language
contemplate anguish and propagate patience
to whom it may concern, and to those who swear it doesn’t make sense
my logic has been snatched into the mist of my own fragrance
aromatic boundlessness. strange synesthesia
I smell beauty in proximity
like the aura of Christmas Eve
*this is The Gift of the Ages . . .