Ash

Fires are contradictory things.

The genesis of creation, of warmth. Radiant, transcendent, otherworldly.

Yet, they are inherently destructive. Symbiotic creatures;

feeding on the fuel that that sustains them, draining them of their worth,

until all become one in the flame.

In the heart of the fire,

the cold outside becomes all the more bitter,

all that awaits outside is isolation, icy seclusion.

Kindling a flame is hard. It takes commitment, dedication.

Though the fruits of flame are countless;

warmth, creation, divine light, shelter, home.

The kindler of a fire needs nothing more than to admire their flame,

to find worth, to find meaning.

In the heart of the fire,

troubles are rendered into smoke and cast away,

all that awaits outside is suffocation, dark paralysis.

The kindler comes and goes, though the fire will always await them.

Burdens and responsibilities may ambush from the woods,

but the fire burns them away.

Safety, security, peace to plan for the countless days ahead;

the fire will last forever.

In the heart of the fire,

it becomes easy to notice its temperature has sullied,

as the cold outside struggles against it.

The fire is home. The fire is aspiration. The fire is future.

The kindler is one with the flame and it is safe.

With a harrowing gust of Baltic air,

without warning, without troubles, without conflicts;

the fire leaves.

The cold whips through the veins, the smoke wraps around the lungs,

the kindler is truly alone.

The woods around them have been burnt to a crisp,

an empty valley of obscure possibilities lie where they stood.

All that remains,

is Ash.

The kindler clings to them, but Ash is not warm,

a shell of the fire that once absorbed them.

Ash is memories of a flame,

of something so precious, now lost.

Ash is cold, she abandons them in the howling winds of change.

Cruel, calculated, yet kind.

There will be warmth again. But when?

Even Ash does not remain,

when?