by JP Davies
The first as bright as the last,
the purple scream, the camera-flash.
The rolling fire, the blood-shot eye,
the cold wind blowing past.
A centre of light that was never born,
never knew in death it could ever linger,
the way a moon can outlast the dawn.
One final sprint, one final flower in bloom –
the welcome air before shadows are scorched,
before the thunder, before the torch dies –
one final drink before sunrise.
Here the crimson wounds, blood-let too swift for scars,
the silent death, the soundless fire –
here the light-years lost with the stars.
The last as dark as the first,
the fire-cracked blink, the lightning sweep,
the clouded black, the centre-burst,
the drawing down before sleep.
Published in Fire