The fire coughs, and dies,
The cold wind whistles,
The last glow illuminates the horrors,
The untamed deadly wild,
The unknown beyond.
Everyone huddles up, afraid,
Darkness surrounds them,
Suffocating and killing their minds.
The dying embers are unassuming,
Are they the tools of light, joy?
Or are they the slow anger of the night?
Are they the solace, peaceful and content?
Are they the tools for mockery and hopelessness?
The embers slowly burn out,
And the remains are red ash,
Desperately hoping for life, for fire,
For anything.
But death, as always swallows them,
And the night reigns, free.
24th November 2019