They Remember

They Remember

Fire sings. If you listen.
It tells a story with flames like brush-tips
dripping wax.

Hear the song reverberating through flesh and bone.
It remembers you.

Shadows trip and tumble upwards,
caught in a rippling dance, unable
to resist the rhythmic susurrations.

Beat by beat, resistance ebbs, then finally forgotten.
But it remembers you.

Tongues lap and ashes lather, between
the blackened birch. Holes like empty staring gazes,
yearn with insatiate eyes.

Contorting faces in the embers whorl.
They remember you.

Beneath the crisp-crackle of dry tinder snapping —
a sawing, heaving, expanding whisper;
a bellows crushing; a breath taken
by lost souls.

They remember you.

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