The Years

Photo by The Lazy Artist Gallery on Pexels.com

Last New Year’s Eve we made the coldest fire,

lit a fire from our bones and collapsed into undealt things

they call them dreams in the real world but we exist in the realm.

 

On the last day of twenty seventeen I stared deep into space and me,

I can tell you how whole new worlds burst out like bluebells in black soil

I can tell you how scars of a log hiss out from the hearth like Hiroshima bones.

 

All of us exist in the realm with the crow fingered sky broken by its touch,

we exist in the climbing ivy wrapped around a house it cannot let go of,

these are beautiful things, haunted as Chernobyl wolves mute to moon.

 

This New Year’s Eve my hair is so grey its as if my fire has turned to smoke and ruin,

yet your fingers stoke a response of light emerging still, vague as my Father

and our parents burn in all of us when we feel we are lost in darkness.

 

The day my Mother lost her Mother to sleep I knew I would find her there always,

sons are both light and darkness existing in the realm like cold distant stars

we are fires, we are ice, we are scratches on an old Springsteen and sky.

 

Last new years eve a Father found his son in a shaking Toyota filled with fog,

the last song he listened to was a song no one heard of but his Dad

we all at some point got lost in the B-side of a track on repeat.

 

Last new years eve we made the coldest fire,

lit a fire from our bones and collapsed into a chorus

they call them songs in the real world but we exist, yeah, we exist

in realms.