A Beautiful Conflagration

It is a war of attrition,
a slow bleeding of the heart,
never dramatic, never full of fireworks,
but a constant, wearing dissonance,

a battle never fought, only
a never ending skirmish,
a tearing of the scab, over and over,
to assure the maximum scarring
and then to complain
of the imperfection.

You are unrecognizable,
except

for that tiny spark
that defiantly remains,
hidden perhaps, but waiting
for just the right fuel

to blaze again
in a beautiful conflagration,
lighting the night air with a brilliant heat,
a resurrection fire no one saw coming

except the soft soul
who listened.

About this poem

Relationships rarely die in a blaze of glory, but instead suffers with a thousand tiny cuts. Our souls rarely flame out, but wither like a rose in winter.

But as long as a spark remains, even one. Anything is possible.

Tom