Quietly sitting beside a dying fire,
hands outstretched, waiting for warmth
that never fully comes.
You tell yourself it's fine,
even fading heat is better than the cold.

But is it enough?
The flickering embers,
the half-light that barely holds back the night.
It is better than the risk of ashes,
better than watching it all burn away.

So you stay.
You stir the coals,
feed it what little you have left,
collecting the smallest sparks,
as if they might one day catch flame.

But they never do.
And deep down, you know they won’t.
The fire dims, shrinking into embers,
glowing softly but offering nothing,
leaving only smoke and the weight of the chill.

And maybe it’s too late.
Maybe one day, the fire will vanish completely,
a hollow space where warmth once lived.
Or maybe—just maybe—
you’ll walk away before the cold takes you too.

He started his own fire,
then he put it out.
They called him a "hero."
You know who this is about.

(People are incapable of change.)