Kindling

From the belly of the hearth,
your sweet name is whispered,
just above the harsh crackle.
Misty, lavender visions,
of your being and our brief past,
dance in the room’s shadows,
etching memories on the walls.

Your snow white beauty,
only caught in constant reverie.
Having glimpsed into your heart,
its sorrows, joys and desires,
I indulge in the waters of your soul,
believing it to be without trespass.
So I let myself think the fruit,
of this delicate tree attainable.

Eyes close amidst the rapture,
and find truth’s tumultuous waves.
My frame scarred and eroded,
beneath the weight of cosmic games.
The basin on the nearby mahogany chest,
is overflowing with barely washed sins.
An overstuffed, disfigured scarecrow,
predictable and at the winds whims.

I can only sit here and think,
that it would all be for naught.
Eventually the morning would come,
with the hard glare of sunlight.
Your affection would surely pass,
as the sun casts off the dew.
But the fire still whispers for now;
it warmth glorious and beckoning.
So I stand up and approach,
hand stretched out to let it devour.