We exist.
Breathe the air and
drink the water.
Do the laundry
and the cooking
and the thousand other tasks
that we’ve decided existence demands.
But this is the skeleton of being.
An everyday trudge
through a taking world
that doesn’t care to dream,
and spends our broken hours
in the cold streets
of other people’s lies.
Existing is the least we can do.
So we dwell.
Find a space and
stay for a time,
hiding from the wind
and fast wolves.
Set our memories on a shelf
so we can dust them off and call it home.
But this is only the comfort of things.
A listless balm of
tired sanctuary
that leaves us empty
and yearning for more
even as we
paint our lives on the walls.
Dwelling is a safe, slow death.
But we can live.
Grab a deep joy
and bite down hard.
Sing a story
for ourselves
and put our arms around a moment
that moves us with a word to dancing tears.
This is a hot breath building in the throat.
A solace of fire
to share with the world
or hold between hearts,
and a long-drawn draught
steeped in meaning.
This is our time made whole.
Living is a hard-lit flame.
