The Fires Fueling My Soul

 

The fires fueling my soul are the embers whittling my very core.

Where are my seeds of redemption?

They are lost in the ashes found deep in the earth’s crying body.

 

For her children eat scorn for their sustenance.

My sustenance is the rage I feel for the laid out

Conundrum given to me by forces outside myself.

 

I eat curds sprinkled with dew, but I’m still

Hungry for a zest to come my way.

 

The rain continues to pour down on me,

Even though my inner fires continue to burn.

Now, they burn out of control.

 

I stampede into my yard where I raise my

Hands in the air, and shout, “What is this

Madness you convey to me at night when

I sleep?

Why can you seal me up in a bottle, air tight,

Where no monsters can get to me?

Do you really believe you’re doing all

Your entrapment in my best interest?

What about the principle which comes

With trails of tears as I bleed out into

The night?”

 

I collapse on the grass, pick a few pieces of

Grass, rolling them and binding them together.

I tie them in knots; the fashion of a loiterer to

Dance with the devil with no choice but to

Fight for my last breath.

This dance was brought upon me against my

Will.

 

I will steal away into the night to never return

To the frivolous ways of his disease.

For it is his disease spreading through my veins.

A hatred burning into forever.

However, what is forever when infection spreads?

 

Could time be the tides vanquishing my true reward?

My true reward never came to fruition.

I’ve never fully come to realize it.

 

For it’s the zest only a mountain can feed upon

When rams ascend its vessel.

With every tool isolation throws at me,

I move into another room where red feeds

Upon my rage.

 

It’s the ignition fueling my rage; yet,

I refuse to become defeated by the actions

Of self.

For it is not written once the ounce of grain

Shall feed my might when angels come calling

On me.

 

Is it a voice I hear far off in the smoky air?

Perhaps it is loneliness wailing for her lost

Children who never bleed until the mice

Return to feed upon their flesh.

 

For it is their flesh moistened by fluidity

Trust fails to bring to them when only

The isolated fools of tomorrow offer up

Themselves in honor of a lost cadence.

 

In the history of Hades lays only one truth.

Man cannot outrun the anger feeding his soul.

He must tackle it and destroy it through facing

The mirror.

For he must search within himself for his inner

Power.

 

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016

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