Cold Stew

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The pot sits gently above the fire

And the embers flicker in surreal delight

As my gaping lips draw nearer

And sit back I shall for this splendor of sight

For each gasp of breath we take

We kindle the flame within our heart

And tender is my touch as we transcend our make

But such is our way to drift aimlessly apart

Primitive are the ashes tending to my soul

And grateful I am for the timber of old

For in its absence my stew grows cold

And so without light, I am just another serving bowl.

Created: May 17, 2017

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