I’m sure it was an ember that illuminated the furnace
In my home, though I didn't know it was cold nor dark.
Little flame on the edge of an exodus chasing old structures of gold.
This small heat is at the center of homeless souls and takes orders only from the sun.
Our rebellion is sizzling and crackling in burnt churches of a new religion.
This must be why our love is synonymous with our freedom.
Go ahead and be a gun, a lyrical gun. Wild and destructive then silent on the table.
You will envy the ember and what is capable of just wait and see.
Howling at the moon, shooting into the atmosphere, praying to be seen.
The brilliance of this observation is the different sounds we make on our distinctive paths.
Our love is alchemically riddled with the wisdom of age and battle songs simultaneously recording and extinguishing the ember as it turns to smoke.
She rises in the air and becomes a ghost!