60/2023

Less smoke, more fire.
Candles on the cake
A pyre of years, those
Linear measures of lives.

Less smoke, less noise,
Flames as high as towers
Warm hands on the walls
Above the spectacles.

Sliced in half, quarters,
Eighths, passed around,
Slices of memories
From womb to wake.

The fire stills.
Only crumbs remain.
Applause from watchers.
The dance begins again.

R 01/03/2023 20:14

So I did manage to come up with something with cake in it.

What a day! More the same to come, I’m afraid. Not really. The afraid part, that is.