The *** sits gently above the fire
And the embers flicker in surreal delight
As my gaping lips draw nearer
And sit back I shall for this splendor of sight

For each gasp of breath we take
We kindle the flame within our heart
And tender is my touch as we transcend our make
But such is our way to drift aimlessly apart

Primitive are the ashes tending to my soul
And grateful I am for the timber of old
For in its absence my stew grows cold
And so without light, I am just another serving bowl.