Dying Flame

Unpublished pieces

Fire burning away the wood that was piled
secretly in the night. The last trace of ashes

falling quietly into the glowing embers of
the painful flames. We dropped our disguises

long enough to celebrate our differences. We
spoke of happiness and pain, letting the fire

burn away our solitude. There was a butterfly
above our heads and as we looked up it

flew into the night. We had lost touch with it
but in reality it had left us. We knew that only

time could heal our wounds and so we set
about cutting the pain away from our hearts.

My scissors were dull but yours were sharp
and so you were the more effective at slicing

through the illusions we had developed. In
reality the illusions were figments of our vivid

alliance. I suggested we try and heal the
wounds we had grown but you were more

interested in continuing the flow of blood. Like
the fire we had burned bright and now we were

a glowing ember, more like a memory of something
once good but now only crackling twigs in a

sunset of lies. We spoke, you and I, of the many
clouds we had woven in our shattered walls which

held the ruin of our hope. The kettle was whistling
which stopped us for but a minute as I went to

pour us a cup of defeat. You drank yours with gusto
and mine was left to grow cold. Our conversation

ended at that point and you got up to walk away
but not before I threw my scissors at your back.

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Vive le Quebec libre!