Awake

Awake

You cannot feel, you cannot see

How did I forget to blame me?

How did I not see that this is just

Just the way you are

I accept them all each one

Every energy that came my way

All this time I said I hurt 

but it was I that did not see nor feel

The rage you gave me flooded my veins

brought life to places long now asleep

Slowly the tingle of limbs starved of blood

throb as life returns to them 

Slowly the flood of oxygen wakes the grog

of a mind slowed by years of repression

I could not feel, I could not see

I'll never again forget to blame me.

by: Shy Willow

Flames

Sitting next to the fire, watching the flames dance I did not have the energy to run and be free. I sat... at times frozen, my eyes to the colors and dance within the fire ring before us. The sweet youthful spirits running free soaking in the air their lungs had craved. 

My body was capable, but somehow for some reason I needed to sit, to get lost in the heat. I watched the white hot coals remain constant as the blue and somewhat rare green flames sprang from the log that was being consumed. Higher up orange and red flames reached into the air more consistently and predictably dancing. 

So often in art those cooler in temperature flames are depicted, seen destroying forests or decorating a noisy motorcycle. Rarely does an artist draw the hotter and less predictable blue flames into their art. 

Perhaps I had it wrong, maybe the blue and orange flames working together is what enabled enough heat to create the white coals in the first place. 

Perhaps that balance we carry though at times feels a bit wild, is exactly what is needed to feed the coals which sustain the heat needed to continue to consume. 

We sat, we talked through it all, yet at times like these when our flames burn low and quiet, and the ash seems to fly carelessly through the air, it is that white hot coal that is waiting. 

Things cool. Aches and pains come. Trials and challenges fill our lives with storms. 

The white hot coals snap and crack with that beautiful sound of shattering glass, biding time, waiting until something comes along to feed it once again.

A stir, and new kindling, and the next moment, our flames roar to new heights as if they had never slumbered in the first place. 

- Shy Willow