Dear child, I do pray thee listen well
The story this sad, scorchéd grave will tell:
A man once lay there, innocent as thee,
Until a flame inside him was let free.

He ate the fire. It entered him a seed,
Hidden deep in dark chasms of want.
And in this soft cold tissue did it feed
(as does a half-dead dog, rav’nous and gaunt).
In those dark icy caverns did it move
And claw about with tiny tendrils sharp
Into that flesh. In nothingness it formed
A shape eerie, grotesque, and madly warped
By every pressure of that emptiness
—Which was, attempt, I’m sure, to hinder it—
But this small creature, under all duress
Grew still incessantly, a match now lit.
As rose the flowers from a thawing soil,
And time presented evermore life flaws,
This tiny demon grew on each new toil,
And gripped e’er deeper with its sharp’ning claws.
Poor tortured soul! How endless was his pain!
As flame and flesh so swiftly came to one,
What burning ecstasy flowed through his veins,
Until all mirth burned, and his soul was won.

I’ve heard he fell with fire in his eyes,
The gruesome face of what we all have inside.
He ate that fire, but soon he was the coal
That fed the dark inferno of his soul.

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