And now, a poem: The Fire

Some nights the fire burns bright and fierce

Flames daring the ghosts to do their worst

Some nights the stars glare empty and cold

Dead embers of life on far distant worlds

Patience wears thin and the cold chisels through

Pressure on the bones as stress bites and chews

Some nights the fire clings to the bottommost log

Bared and glowing over ashes misted by fog

The sky hangs heavy over courses of lead

Focus strength on the power to lift up the head

Some nights dreaming is the only recourse of the sane

But sleeping and wakeful all feels the same

Plodding forward on endless circles in space

Eddies and whirlpools leave no permanent trace

All fleeting, all passing, all hard in their wake

Struggle on, pull together, but which world is fake?

Heavy lids and dry eyes, tired hands and weary feet

Battle spirit, time, hope, goodwill, slowing heartbeat

Drowning, climbing, sliding, cursing, fight

Give up on giving up, the end’s never in sight

Sometimes the fire keeps burning even under the sand

Cradle the spark, though it may burn your hand.

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