This little light of mine has lost its shine,
Turned grey and rotted on the vine,
And left no spark to light my way,
Just the sweet reward of slow decay,
And a coldness that I can’t embrace,
In this harsh and unforgiving place,
Where poets fight in search of cause,
And angels go to dull their claws,
Now shake and shiver, dance and spin,
On the grave of all the may have been,
As I seek new substance to console,
The absence of what made me whole,
With fingers warmed by sweet hindsight,
Clinging to memories still bathed in light,
Maybe I was too busy chopping firewood,
To see the fields where forests stood,
And so focused on stoking that blaze,
I lost tomorrow through the smoky haze,
Now left with only cautionary tales,
And ash beneath my fingernails,
I finally realize what I should have known,
That fire fights for itself alone.