The Little Fire

Joshua Newton,

Out there in the fog of darkness

Alone, the night is at its darkest; even the stars

have not grown claws long enough,
to reach through that inky veil.

The fire has grown dim; like you, it holds its breath
waiting desperately for sunlit morn.

The wretched wind shakes the ground,
hrowing salt in wounds that never heal,
tearing at your broken bones.
Off in the blackened distance,
you have heard tall trees fall with yells and shouts:
Crying words you’ve already forgotten.

The blistering wind tries, oh it tries to beat you down.
It whispers in your ears, it wraps sharp talons around your mind:
It says you will not see tomorrow’s sky.
Do not listen, Do not fear.
I will reach my home shortly; You mumble in reply,
But the truth is reflected in your tired eyes.
The icy cold bites and gnaws, your soul grows numb,
You cry.

The tears are whisked away, gone forever,
Like those you once knew, with whom you cried together.
Dead mans rain will begin to fall,
Weathering away your crumbling self,
neither tears nor them can help you then
when your memories are but a puddle:
And in it your life’s reflection.

The End is near,
Out there is the fog of darkness, with oozing bloodshot eyes

it sees your little fire; your desperate self and last hopeless breaths,
Its oily infested scales absorbs your weighted despair.
It licks it bulbous lips, saliva pools at its birdlike feet,
yearning for the fire to flicker into death,
before it pounces, wailing horribly with delight;
aiming to peel your skin and tear you limb from limb.

But not it, not you, know the secret of the little fire,
which it buries deep within its core:
That its flickering is but a dance,


Brian Culley 








To the sweet melody of tomorrow,

Because it knows,
Even in the strongest storms and harshest bouts,
It, the little fire will never go out.