Poem: Ashes

Fire is the blood of thought,
Burning reason,
The warmth of non-meaning, non-being, undying death.
Ashes of dark memories,
Light, what is left over after,
Are only the ashes, memories,
Ashes to be smeared over the forehead,
Ashes to be won, and ashes to kill the fire within.
Fire is a thing of beauty, but ashes are forever, and a joy forever.
Let me clean my house, the annals of my mind crave,
But cleaning is with ashes, and the memories of others, another animal time clear my backyard,
Of the emotional baggage,
And the innocent thoughts of naked women.
As my oxidized thoughts wander,
I wonder if I must cough up,
Surrender to the fine dust in my lungs,
Ashes sometimes suppress breathing,
But sometimes the nicotine is too necessary to live.
Ashes lie strewn about in the space of time, giving time to space, and space to those who need a time, maybe just a little.
Ashes fly away, fires light, ashes alight,
In the slow motion tizzy of mirrored silence,
As the fire burns away, it leaves the shadows, after all,
Shadows come from within, and dominate without.
Sun’s ashen rays, and the golden dullness of ashes cling on the devil’s workshop,
My mind is empty but the grey matter, but the ashes.
If fire is the moment, ashes are leftovers,
Leftovers are cold, but they satisfy hunger,
Better than the memories of warm food,
but isn’t cold food the memory of warm food?
The redundancy of ashes is profound,
Ashes are a form of cinematic thought,
Of dialectic spaces, of crummy dialogues, of Kafkaesque art,
Of the screams of modern living, of the Homer of.