Passing Through the Flames, by Anton Nemeth

Passing Through the Flames


I sit here on my aging aching butt

Among a lot of burnt up branches put

Here to show what the flames of fire can do

To them and the layers of silent soil

Beneath the coat of fallen drying leaves

And needles that the trees rain upon them

Where they mix and rot to feed the flora

And fauna of the rich sustaining loam.


Those gray and black fame flayed bones

Spread a ghost forest in this bright white space

And though the flames have passed I see them yet

As tongues of spirit orange and yellow

Dancing slow mad hot jigs on the blank walls.


These shreds of shrubs claw up, like drowning hands

In a sea of red hot oxidation.

I know how they feel.

I know how they feel.


And yet I move on, shedding my own skin,

The light white dandruff that evidences

My slow passage through the mediocre

Conflagration of vibrant, charming, life.


Anton Z. Nemeth