I’ve written much on
feelings of sadness and dread
and loneliness and pain.

I’ve written much on
being in a state of flux,
confused.

I’ve written much on
how dreams are scary,
and how I wish *this* was different.

I’ve written much on
you and you
and you.

One could say you
are my muse.
You are fuel, at least.

My fire is burning
brighter and brighter
with every word,

every thought,
that escapes my
crumbling mind.

I’m tired —
I think I’ve written
much on that too.

But this flame,
this red-hot sore
bursting from my lungs,

from my eyes,
my lips,
screams for attention.

“Look at me! Look at me!”
it says when peace
comes to visit.

I listen, of course,
and I watch and wait,
a vessel to whatever comes.

Could I mold this fervor,
this light?
Maybe,

maybe the brightness
I yearn for
sits within me.

Maybe I will be
consumed in light —
but not in a fiery event —

simply as a side-effect
of letting whatever is inside
shine.