Smoke
Never mistake this
this stillness for peace;
don't tell me I must
'take things easy';
spare me, too, your crass
remarks on the sweet
satisfactions of old age.
There are
none of these;
nothing compensates us
for the loss of all
we have tasted;
nor do we wait
for death's cool touch
serene, clear-eyed,
composed.
There are no pleasures
to match those past;
now we look for them
only in memory;
we do not measure
out 'simple joys'
as our season limps
to a close;
rather, there is fire;
it leaps in our hearts
and we curse
the bare bones
that are wasted;
we rage and rail
as slow disease
impedes us,
renders us frail.
We are no more 'at peace'
than we were
in our prime;
forever on fire,
we are tempered.
We die as we live,
in the furnace
of our hearts.
All life is our fuel
so we burn.
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