‪It’s hard to conjure up a forest fire‬
My flames are quiet and I tremble
I flinch
I buckle at the knees
My fight or flight senses were birds in their past lives
I am sorry I was not born Achilles, marching into every war with certainty, never knowing a sliver of doubt
Prophecies of greatness do not cling to me like summer air
I open my mouth and words betray me, for I am no Odysseus with his honey tongue
But heed this promise: I will create something one day
A great many somethings, born not from innate divinity but perseverance
Like Daedalus with his artist’s mind, craftsman’s hand, quiet thinking, deliberate talking
I am becoming
Like golden witch Circe in Aeaea, feeling her way through strange new grounds
Someday, someday, somewhere else
You will see me bloom

this is what cowards,
weakling,
worms,
and philosophasters do

seeing suffering as
a fur coat
to hide into,
to dodge the rain of daggers
we all must endure

come out cowards!
come out
and dull these daggers with me!

throw yourselves
out of melancholy's embrace
into the steel rain
and know the pneumonic chill
of reality