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The habits of man hold fast their resolve, while merely repeating the past. (Image by Takahashi)
by Odin Roark
How innocent the burning begins,
when words merely sear the surface,
when passion has not yet ignited the fire,
when conscience knows little of consequence,
flouting its power to rise above the smaze of denial.
Little by little,
we drag on the influence of its high,
capitulating to the intrigue of red-hot seduction,
even as wisdom’s ancestry wheezes its ancient echo,
warning of life’s last breath is ever the next.
History’s ashtray continues to be overflowing,
the crumpled white of duplicitous reward groveling
amidst the buried cinders of yesterday,
unaware tomorrow’s probability remains threatened.
The ubiquitous fly,
being the tenacious parasite of decay it is,
crawls from beneath the ashes,
flits debris off its wings and takes flight,
seeking more killing fields of nescience,
where the smoldering recurrence of habitual war,
stages yet another gamble with life.
Oh, if only the taste of self-destruction was more acrid.
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|Reviewed by richard cederberg
|I think it's acrid enough. Unfortunately far too many are so de-sensitized they don't feel anymore. Some blistering imagery, Odinsan. 'Smaze'... good word. A mixture of smoke and haze. Clever.|
|Reviewed by Ronald Hull
|So many revel in the taste of self-destruction without even knowing it. What a shame.
Your poem brought the revelation to me that fires are a part of nature, usually brought about by lightning, and infrequently brought about by lava flow. Perhaps all of our burning down of bridges is just a human way of extending natural burns, needed for renewal and rebirth.