Number Six

I look into the fire coals,
and think of all the lost, wasted, souls.

I remember how it used to be for me,
when it was smooth sailing, blue skies,
fireflies seducing my eyes and brain.

The warm flame I hoped to find,
has turned me blind.

But in a different way, so I can see,
but not trust the feelings of my true sensitivity.

©The Slow Talking Poet 2020