One little flame burning out,
redundant in this present era.
A foot or two or warmth around
but generous enough to share it.
Not like what’s in my apartment:
lifeless, unafraid of dying,
fixed inside a stale compartment,
unconcerned with endless vying
for more fuel or guarantees
of balance between flames and trees.
A chorus of flames burning out,
laughing at our antsy effort
to suppress the nagging doubt
that says we are but water and dirt.
Though our flame flickers like fire,
fit to burn some earth, then die,
our lightbulbs aspire higher,
cutting through the curtain sky.
Laughing! ’cause we light the world up
only to dissolve back to dust.
Desert camping is a good thing;
if you stay up late enough and keep your quiet,
you might remember why it’s weird to be alive.