Playing with Fire

If I put my head deliberately into the fire, there is no appeal to fire or to the maker of fire, and I have only myself to blame. - Thoreau

I concede.

Beg and plead.

More is what I need.

I am no match for time.

I try to flick my Bic.

But the days of my life burn down like a candlestick.

Coming and going.

The growth rings of my tree showing.

Smoking me down to the filter.

Throwing my essence out of kilter.

Flicking my butt.

Not knowing who, when, where, why or what.

Falling by the wayside.

My hands and feet tied.

As it takes its toll.

Like an empty cereal bowl.

Wrinkling my skin and extracting more marrow.

I hope there is always a tomorrow.

Begged, stolen or borrowed.

I grow tired of rubbing my two sticks together.

Trying to be one with it, like birds of a feather.

In all kinds of weather.

Please release me from this eternal tether.

The bagpipes play the battle to help me win the fight.

But destiny is my plight.

As I try to do what is right.

I still reach for the dream and aspire.

My fate growing ever more dire.

The longer I keep ...

... playing with fire ...

Author's Note

“The fire is the main comfort of the camp, whether in summer or winter, and is about as ample at one season as at another. It is as well for cheerfulness as for warmth and dryness.” - Thoreau