I suppose it was the fire inside
That lead me through that day,
That little void of unknown dystrophy
Calling me, asking me to be the one to shut it up.
But whatever the case may be, it is true now.
Catching up, they called it, at least at first,
At least until the red rum, carbonating in that mug.
But perhaps it was their own fires that night,
Calling not to fill, but to fulfill;
Fulfilling their empty hearts, perhaps.
The look of life as satiable is
A dangerous beast to tame.
And then I sat there, spitting my hopes away
Into the sink, and then the toilet.
When my father asked my response was simply,
“Because I can.” Though I'm not sure I wanted to.
And then there was no fire left inside,
Nothing but it's ashen remains while
We sat there, laughing, because there was
Not much else any of us could do.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem