Secretary Of Pagan Relations

Eyes watched from the fire,

Conversed with it,

Read out stories in,

Blazing, selfish words

With mud on their faces,

Brown and staying wet,

With the sweat of their moving,

They bowed and bent

Burning,

Crying shrieks

It all comes down so fast,

The fire spoke through him,

Investing in his heart,

Curling herself like a vixen around

His beating heart,

That told him he was alive

Time,

Then the upward reach of concrete,

Windows stared back at windows,

Admiring the response time

Of shoes and slacks,

To deadlines and crease marks,

That come down so fast,

Upon the pillars of Prosperity and Future,

In glass high towers,

Drinks were poured at one

Inside they washed against,

The fire that bid him find,

The muddied girl in the alley,

Between Twenty-first and Madison,

Arching and toying,

With trains of thought

At night he took to,

Making love to the apparition,

Furious fits that drained,

Hollowed out the reserves he had put away,

For vacations and old age,

Sleep premature

Days he would spend,

Focused on the stillness of his hand,

The eternal black of her hair,

As she whispered some nights,

And he thought about the life that condensed on his ear,

When she told him about when she was a girl

Time,

Running by with our shadows,

Impersonates and tricks us,

As the fire pours out of our eyes,

And the last thing he saw,

You will see,

Burning fast,

Everything,

That bends and breaks beyond its means.

Which is to say everything.

And the fire left.

In the dark a smile,

Is my final thankful say on this world.