The others. Separate. Distant.
Watching. As if
Our lives were only wisps.
And yes, they were impressed by the fire,
On the whole.
But they were keen to impose,
They never noticed
Us.
The flicker of birth,
The crackle of death,
Burned beyond them.
The others. Ascended.
Left. As memories.
We scratch our flint
On sodden twigs.
The night echoes
With fireworks made from souls.
I try to pick a flame
And see where it ends up.
