Feeding His Soul With Fire

The riffs of life drown out the ease of blasting

Melodies surging through my ears.

My veins cannot escape flaming arrows

Shooting out from your mouth.

I wish there were a credence to bring

About and end to the fires burning

Inside my chest cavity; lying heavily

With grief.

There is no rest in the faltering moon

Light.

The lone wolf howls at the wind

For nighttime skies feeding his

Soul with fire.

Remnant take over the cape

Of the fodder resting on furled

Grounds.

The bludgeon taken to the head

Of his grave is the mustering

Music voiced by the wind.

Chimes are struck thrice,

And the grains of earth moan

When encumbered by faculties

Of the facilitator.

Armed time is enforced by 24

Calling down into the gully

Where passionate vessels are

Awakened from a deep sleep.

Unconventional warfare spreads

Across the blinding glares of the

Sea.

Cockleshells ring through misty

Caves which drink in the essence

Of my spirit.

I walk these lands with unfaltering

Stride; yet, all noonday infringement

Be unbroken by fighters of the flame.

For every flame which burns,

There is a child rising higher

From darkened depths of the

Earth’s crust.

For they are children of the storm

Riding across country on the backs

Of the living dead.

Thunder strikes down the faithful

Apple tree whose sustenance used

To quench all who thirst for the

Zest in life.

However, it is the zest itself

Which branches the riders out;

Causing them to flea from moaning

Spirits.

Following the moonlight down into

The geyser; they remiss their unholy

Deeds through convulsion of their

Bodies.

An eruption occurs in the volcano

They have become, and lava

Nourishes the land with its own

Ashes.

There is nothing left in the grail

Holding flaming dreams tight.

For the mind has become its

Dwelling where only childish

Whims lurk about.

Searching for bonds of base;

They tabulate their losses,

And walk away from their past.

Try as they may, they cannot

Run away from themselves.

They can only run into the

Arms of their past; hold it

Tight, and nurture with

A strength allowing them

To behold it from distance.

Observing their past selves

Leads to reflection, and life

Long lessons learned for the

Morale of the deed.

If any of the light is to face

Conscience there must be a

Fire ignited to carry out life.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016

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