random scribbling

happy way home

To think that once I saw in the center of our camping ring, a crackling fire pit,
Thought to myself that she was simply too cold for my hand if hit,
To have thought that and yet gone on to hit with bare palms, that beautiful shard of hell,
Shrivelling skin and trembling fingers still convinced me not, "She's just cold" I'll tell.

They looked at me with shock, those sitting to my right and left,
They looked with horror at the man who patted red coals cleft,
An idiot, a fool, a ghoul, a mule, they whispered, they hushed and sighed,
With tears that burned right through his eyes, the scientist his burns defied.

He reached out again and again, he carressed the flames till they on his hand did rest,
He held out his arms, the melting flesh itself, he held it out for the one friend he knew best,
No sighs, no cries, no screams, no chides of agony, shame or hurt,
He smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled that the flame had left his heart unhurt.

"Why the fever", "why the madness", "why burn your skin and bones" they yelled,
He parted his mouth, blood dripping out, to share with them the reason that never selled,
And utter he did, not the reason, not even close, only laugh and holler he could,
How could he say, what words could he use if he wished to be understood.

It was there, right there, in the middle of the flame, those years ago,
He fell one day into the sea from the ship who's crew him did throw,
Night it was for a week and an another, until he was dragged out into shore,
Numb flesh and soul, cold skin and bone, he saw those flames and there became her whore.

The warmth that sent her to the clouds, against her will, her screams, his mother,
That crew they used and abused, women old enough to breathe, without bother,
Small cluster, a dozen strong in that island they lived, his family, men and women,
Until they came, that crew one day, and found that we spoke not the tongue of the boatmen.

He watched them cry, to gods deaf and dead, as they writhed and rolled in fire,
A roast of his kindred, a throw of waste that the stranger had now no use for than the pyre,
Half decade since birth, a few days more, that's all he was that day,
The day he saw those flames so warm, embrace his heart, withering away like hay.

How could he say, how could they know, the sons of the boatmen around the fire that day,
I loved the embers that glowed red like blood, I loved her more than I could say,
Her warmth was too little of use in the coldness of my world,
And yet I know that in her hands that held so cold, she'd lead me with love to them in the underworld.