Turn,
Turn toward the Flame.
Give it all, let it consume all.
Nothing is free of it in the end,
let its devouring flood your veins
before you die in its fire.
When loneliness rears her ugly head,
and the world lies distracted,
dormant and dead,
look heavenward, inward,
to the Flame.
When all is lost,
turn toward that ember
the faintest of all
no matter the ash you claw through
to find it
however far buried
barely visible on the darkest of nights.
Ask nothing of it,
nor of tomorrow, but
nurture it with greatest kindness,
gentlest breath,
as if all depends on it.
It does.
Know your birthright among
brothers, sisters, stars,
yours,
those you can't yet know
but someday hold dearest,
scattered 'cross continents,
cosmos and centuries.
Those who gave themselves to the Flame
and by it know peace.
When fellow travelers you've found,
weave your feral burning with theirs
in the greatest of kinship and grace.
Dance as that eternal golden braid
incinerates all excuse, complacency and lack,
hearts stretched out to heaven.
Fear no chaos in torrent
or stillness or grief,
let untamed grace find you
'mid the insanity of it all,
and may you wholly find life,
again,
in the Flame of wholeheartedness.
None is yours to claim,
all is yours to give,
to the Flame
that is our severest call
and dearest rest.
So
Burn.
Let it all,
all all,
all,
past, present, future,
without apology,
Burn.
F*cking burn.
There we'll run together.
We'll fly at dawn
'cross that wildfire-charred meadow
as ash and mythic inevitability
birth wildflowers blooming,
where running is ease,
ease, laughter,
laughter, light.
The Flame of reckoning:
the Flame of hearth,
the Flame of hope.
Total surrender to that elemental heat
is apprenticeship to Life itself,
dancing in the flickering air of
freedom.
By the grace of that blessed dance,
with sly grin and rising will of flint,
We'll
Turn.
