The Crone

An old flame which never quite dies, you carry around an ember of in your pocket. Slowly, slowly, it sears through the haven in which it lies buried and stings your skin in a warmth of pain and half-remembered memories.

The daydream begins with a slow smile, foggy in your mind, a kind word, ending with a kiss of such sweetness never to be forgotten nor had. You hold on to this half-hidden picture in your mind’s eye and care that the world knows not of this hidden desire.

But the ember has been fanned and out seeps a tongue of flame, bringing with it the black fringes of a singed soul amongst the vibrant color of its life, short though it may be. You play with the fire, in your mind, you seem to think with your heart, you are blinded by its new-ness, forgotten as you have buried it. Like a moth drawn to light, you repeatedly try to possess what is not meant to be yours and in the end, succumb to death: of the flame or of yourself.

Remember to forgive yourself when all this has come to pass. Life is indeed short and there are no retakes, no rewinds. Be that as it may, take kindness where you can and give back such care; do not regret what has been for this will only cause you pain.