The Birth of Fire
There is a fierceness to it,
the brass and bronze and paint combining,
molded, created into a thing of art,
a fiery new thing.
Even from a distance, it looks alive,
vibrant and wild. You wait for it
to fly, to swoop, to spit fire on it’s enemies.
Normally, you are not attracted to fierceness,
but the times we are in have changed you.
You live on the edge of anger
for a people abandoned,
and if you are not yet fierce,
you coming dangerously close,
no longer the quiet one, you speak,
you proclaim, despite every effort to live in love
at times, the anger leaks out
Once you feared that kind of fire,
the fire you could see at a distance,
wild and somehow still in control,
a natural bent to justice that will not be denied.
Once you feared it, but more and more,
you find an admiration, and like a just hatched
thing of scales and fire, you test your wings.
You cough the smallest of flames,
unsure whether to laugh at the baby being born
or be afraid.
About this poem
I have never thought myself a justice warrior. I was taught to keep my thoughts and opinions to myself, never to risk riling others up. It is still my natural bent, but the last few years have changed that. It is hard for me to keep my gentleness intact. I find myself always on the edge of eruption, unable to stay quiet at what I see.
Keeping that under control is an effort. Trying to say it in a way that won’t just spawn anger but create at least a listening, maybe even a thought, has become hard work. A baby dragon maybe. Spreading my new gossamer wings. But always remembering, in the end, they killed all the dragons.
Wierdly yours today,