I felt the rumbling
    of the fire as it
      burned,
       mutilated,
        my skin.
The fresh laid logs
    glowed in their
      own sort of
       maniacal tension.
My heated flesh
      denied the
       existence
        of the pain.
I drive myself
      to pursue
       new directions.
So let the comb
    arrange the hair
      and
       let the face be
        nice and clean.
I entered a place
      of restless tomorrows.
Eyes dashing
      left and right
      to see if the
       cups of promise
       follow along.
Throw a nickle
into the wishing well.
    Make a wish.
     Meditating in
      determined manner,
       hot or cold does
        not matter anymore.
I can only be the type
      of person
      I want to be.
What works
      for others
      does not always
       comfort me.
Too many followers
       and not enough
        individuals.
The mystery to me
        is why this
      doesn't bother anyone.
I place my hands
      out in front of me,
        and let my fingers
       feel the growing grass
         as it comes through
         the ground.
A crowd of one
       with temporary
        isolation.
A place of peace
      where none
        exists.
I rub away the
     helpless hurting.
       Gaining warmth
       from the returning flame.