Fire

Sitting alone in an ancient house of the past,

I stare into the depths of the fireplace.

A match box in my hand shakes as the fire catches fast,

Soon the wood ignites and sends light into my face.

Heat radiates from the fire comforting my weary body,

Sighing I lean in wanting the heat to reach inside me,

My hands are stiff as I rub them together, so bloody,

The blood flakes off and lands on my bruised knee.

The fire warms me inside and out,

Erasing the melancholy case of doubt.

Coldness wakes me, the fire must have died,

Shivering in the dark with nothing,

How I wish I still had some of my pride,

If only I did not lose everything.

The pain returns and I am glad for the numbness,

Accepting the cold as a friend, I stand and smile,

Gathering my matchbox I discard my glumness,

If I'm to survive I must get used to this for a while.

My only friend is in my hand,

The form of fire and sand.