smoke

It starts, the first fire deep into the night, a spark held over from the fall. The folded smolder of this immolation. A breath of the incantation. This dose to dull and numb, to lull the very senses. Another rushed ignition. This ransomed incandescence. This poor translation from dream to being.

This is where the magic happens. This great drift unto dreaming. This urgent search, this misplaced word. Hidden in the temporary, blurred about the light. The fade into indistinction. The place where words won’t go.

I always burn the midnight oil. My candle lit at both ends. Some compulsion or mortal curse knowing just where to find me. Smudge my name from the awnings. Chase my memory from the eaves. At once again this burning. At once again some scant light.