It’s a **** shame to keep the fire waiting
Like near rotten lemons and yellow butterflies it turns a distasteful eye
From the former mirrors of rainbow and sunny skies
Making one smell the burn-out as such nuisance to the nostrils that long for the daffodils
Why would someone be dull like the squeaking floor,
That reflects a free bird flying away in the middle of hard rain
Spraying from its wings, droplets of water that one would slip
And fall, that the fire one seek was under one’s feet because of neglect
Then one would say ‘stand up’, but when faced with someone’s back
It would rather seem appropriate to wish the bird goodbye
Or wave and tell yourself a lie,
That it’s truly a **** shame to watch the fire grow small
But more chilling as winter creeps into your forgotten daffodils
And as a coward as one would be, would point a finger to the burn-out
That butterflies within one’s self can only endure as much
Asking whether one’s eyes would leak or crumple the pump that waters your whole
Have someone ever wondered why charcoal looks so dark?
And not the fiery red that it once was
That like the blackhole is ***** the smell of spring or the near rotten lemons of hard rain
Why can’t it be yellow after asunder, or blue like the ocean
As when the fire was still warm
Is it because it’s white like throwing the towel
Or gray, as one just simply closes one’s eyes and feels nothing
From the spaces and the gaps that compresses one’s air
Someday, a bird may fly no more as the flames threatens no more
That the bird would wait for the box as the daffodils wither and die like the fire that waited
And shameful are the horizon that showed no spark to keep it burning
Because the feet slipped and are equally shameful for showing only one’s back
To the flames growing smaller
That while cowardice walks away from the cold
The fire may then rekindle from a different rock, making shame ever so odorous from the former loss
And the butterflies or the daffodils would smell different then