Light and Life

There are small fires walking all around,
and all our apogees are flying back.
I try to whisper, but there is no sound.

The world in a spoon is yet more round,
and hearts eke out a glimmer through the black.
There are small fires walking all around.

My memory, like a spool, is tightly wound,
fearing no flame; dreading nothing but slack.
I try to whisper, but there is no sound.

Both shrubs and men burn long on holy ground.
My form ignites; an artful tinder stack.
There are small fires walking all around.

When men are made of fire, I have found
that just to brush against them makes you crack.
I try to whisper, but there is no sound.

Fire sputters, stutters, starts, and spreads around
to people. What save fire can quell the black?
There are small fires walking all around.
I try to whisper, but there is no sound.