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THE CHOSEN ONE

Posted by Dr. D , 23 August 2010 · 32 views

His haunches ached . . . .
From squatting so.
But he could not leave
The brightness of the magic blaze.
Had not the god of night
Grumbled across the heaves¨. . . .
Sending forth
The shaft of frenzied light
That burst into the flame before him?
Was he, then, not blessed
As the chosen one. . . .
To receive the flame of heaven
That warmed his flesh
And lit the distant path
Into the primeval forest?
Certainly, he was the richest
Of all men. . . .
Of all those who dwelled
Among the dark caverns
And cowered against the chill of night
Beneath the hides of many creatures.

And so it was. . . .
He ventured forth by day
To gather the wood of the forest. . . .
To feed the flame. . . .
The gift of the generous god of storms.
By night,
He sat again before the flame. . . .
Looking pward in gratitude. . . .
And watching the sparks of the fire
Spiral toward that god. . . .
As symbols of the gift. . . .
Imitating the ghosts of fireflies. . . .
Trying to be stars.
Each day he went forth. . . .
Into the forest. . . .
And each day father. . . .
For he had used the wood
Nearest him. . . . and, the flame. . . .
Had a hunger he could not conceive
When squatted joyfully before it.

On the eleventh day after
Receiving the flame. . . .
He returned to the place
Where the tongue of his god
Had touched the earth
With a fiery blast
Announcing his might and mercy.
Behind him. . . .
He dragged the limbs and branches
That was the bounty of the forest. . . .
And upon which the flame
Found nourishment.
This time he had traveled far
To gather the food of the holy flame.
And, this time. . . .
He returned to find
His god had taken back the gift. . . .
Leaving cold, moist ashes as the sole memory
Of what was the warmth, brightness and pleasure
Of his life.
The discoverer of fire wept . . . . and no one ever knew.

Unto me. . . .
You have given the flame of love.
It warms me as surely as any blaze. . . .
It lights my path
Through the dark corridors of life. . . .
It kindles my finest instincts. . . .
Into explosions of expression
Bursting forth in pillars of passion,
Pain and the purity of being.
From the circle of its light. . . .
I shall not wander.
Itís fuel shall be found within me.
I shall be its satellite. . . .
Reflecting all its beauty
That hides the craters of my imperfections.
I shall feed its hunger
Gladly, from my own being.
And, if it consumes me. . . .
I shall be the waste of ashes
Testifying to the gift of you.
And I shall weep . . . . and no one shall ever know.