By Will Burns
Brisk wind douses the dying fire,
as chilled smoke billows through my mind,
turning the creative engine forward,
and exhausting ambient thoughts into reasoned morals.
Withered leaves rustle among stoic giants,
slowly silhouetting themselves against blue pastel summits.
The clear sky, clouded with delirious shades of color,
sharply contrasts the soft sounds of morning dew,
tenderly pattering against the underbrush.
I am alone, completely isolated
and only accompanied by:
The ambient silence of the forest
holds me at the brink of control,
constantly grounding me in the present.
Rigid bodies crack against the forefront of my skull,
locked in hyper-focused contention of
primal indulgences and civilized self-control.
I squirm in the dirt, unclean of mind and body,
and desperate for air,
I draw in,
deeply scorching my lungs with each breath;
I am reminded of years past,
and shameless agony engulfs my humanity
until I lie clenched within myself,
twitching to tortured thoughts of just one more
—just one more.
Bloody, black tar congeals in my chest
my lungs, the walls of my throat
straining to survive,
to endure their guttural reflexes
of a poisoned body desperately
mining out pure drippings of character.
Sweat rushes down my face as
artificial verity swiftly dissipates
into muffled dreams of arcane epochs,
lost in rational decay and
forged by the great ambient symphony.
Abrupt tranquility retrieves my focus,
and the ambient silence finally resumes,
almost forgetting not to be noticed.
Breaking my stare from the fire’s embers
I glance ahead;
lightly brushing my pants while
half expecting dust to come off
and half surprised it didn’t.
Cracking my neck
I look back into the fire,
listening to the charred wood scream,
and watching the white smoke eclipse