When I wrote Fire, I kept returning to the image of a rose left bloodless in the glow of what it had already lost. I wanted to follow the blaze all the way through, to see how grief might burn away illusion until only a strange, stubborn meaning was left standing in the dark.
Fire
I saw through the fire,
the benefit of declare.
The rose unseen
The burning and despair
No fun for the game
Sudden yes I grieve
To be one with a spirit
I saw the fire believe
Awaken is the fire
Consumed what is loved
Awaken is the rose
Shown no blood and alone
Read Next → Foolish Missing
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Author’s Note — Fire has always felt like both a quiet ruin and a ruthless clarity, stripping away what will not last. Only after the burning do I see what remains honest enough to stand in the smoke.
— Author’s Note: When I wrote Fire, I was wrestling with how loss can scorch away the stories we told ourselves. In the ash, what stayed was smaller, stranger, and somehow truer — the kind of truth that hurts first, then quietly begins to heal.
