The fire has run its course
And the pioneers are rushing to fill up the void
Where the ashes are still growing cold.

I haven’t forgotten the smoke
Or the pain or the loss or the terrible cost
Of the wretched pale finger I hold.

In time there will grow things anew
More fodder for fire, for nothing can stay
Undisturbed, in this world that I built.

I will pick at the cracks once again
I will cut off my limbs and bathe in gasoline
Just to stop this terrible guilt.

With god as my witness I lie
Pretend to be dead and rot in my bed
Be the nothing I ought to have been,

And over again, the spark
Will catch to the timber. And there I will linger
In the background, with a matchbox, unseen.