Poetry: Fire Effects

We are of Taraxacum.

A volatile genus in duress.

Our heads disseminate, blown from our stems.

Rash thoughts ignite into words and whirl

On the wind,

Take seed in a flash of tongue and slice of eye.

In the young, loamy soils

We till fears deep.

They spring up from the ground and

Spark into being.

Fractured fragments of the whole,

Born from friction, this contempt consumes.

And it is like a wildfire.

Thick, fiery vines twist and coil.

Flowers, stoked to an angry bloom, blaze and burst,

Throwing open petals wide with the backdraft of odium.

It scorches and scars the skin of the earth.

We are barbaric in this unnatural state.

Hearts sterilized by the heat of hate.

Hearts full of bitter sap and brambled embers.

Roiling smoke stings and blinds us,

Chokes away our empathy.

This fury lashes through our humanity

Until there are only blackened sticks and

Smoking patches of ashy dirt.

The afterglow of spent, searing sentiments

Fade from the carpel.

Here, a pistil of arrogance and one of defeat,

And here, a pistil of disgust

And another of ignorant nostalgia.

Fear singes the last delicate cell walls

In a red, luminescent squall line.

And finally, fully charred,

The spent bloom wilts and crumbles.

But their fire has not left me infertile.

In this crackling, wild prairie,

There is a budding, a delicate anticipation

That the rains of my sorrows will sprout new growth.

I must germinate, cultivate

A bright breath of compassion,

Lest the world around me burn out and

Smolder into cold nothingness.

 

By: Erica Ruhe

woman in red lipstick near green plant

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

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