thank god for the worming warm flames
inching around the split, sacrificed wood:
the theme is pondered with increased gravity, directly in relation to the number of dimming beverages, the quanitity of rich foods in belly.
faces hover round,
more eager to share honest stories,
or at least the honester version of stories
that will persist for a great number of years.
stories that define whatever, quality X, except too subjectively - rare and special indeed are the conscious among us.
behind, the hammock swings, filled with lazy lovers engaged in their own talk
and out comes the chiding host, and the constant threat of unseen neighbours,
the damned killjoys who always fail to manifest. suburban goblins slither up the trees.
we turn back to fire without a second thought.
we'd rather burn it down than stop this train of tongues and ears,
of smoke billowing smoothly up to the hungry gods,
of eager eyes glittering in the flame.
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