A Burning Question
Poem by David Taylor
I prod the funeral pyre of my ego
with a sturdy stick.
One made of a question
that is most dear to my heart and soul.
Skilfully mixing unburnt stubbornness
with leafy insubstantial claims.
Leaping flames gather force
the heat causing some recoiling
as it streams upon my face.
Mysteriously one knotted log
grows in size and has the name of pride.
The stick continues about its work
and as I begin to understand
the nature of the work at hand
stick and log they both burn too.
I am left to simply stand
with nothing here remaining in my grasp
and watch the embers gently glow
as I see that ego go.
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