Croatoan

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
this poem is about addiction - I found a friend I've been out of touch with for many years only to find he was battling an addiction. When we spoke finally, he shared how things have changed and how since stopping he's been able to find some semblance of himself beneath the ashes.

Submitted: May 26, 2017

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Submitted: May 26, 2017

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Croatoan

The flames that once licked at our feet and kissed our cheek and flirted and beckoned us...
It engulfs us.
The truth is around us and its gentle call 
gives way to a nasty hiss.
The dreams that it once inspired now lay charred and ravaged.
The pieces are there but they are burned and dirty
The fire...it tricked us.
The fire we danced around, played with, 
used as a security blanket of warmth.
It tricked us.
It lied.
It stole from us.
It drew us in with our curious eyes and imaginable hope.
It made us believe we were strong and shielded.
It enticed us with shadows and its romantic flickering light

We wanted it to open our minds... and it made us a prisoner
It consumed us until our thoughts were its thoughts
Its grip became tighter and unyielding 
until we lost our voices
until we couldn't remember what we wanted.
The pleasure fades into nightmares
The freedom we traded for bondage
The flirting a violation
The open expanse before us a crevasse of black

But we are still there.

The seed of the great redwood tree does not sprout and grow
until it is incinerated by fire.
Its shell turns black and distorted  from the heat
It is unrecognizable from its former shape

But it is still there.

The fire does not win
The fire is there to destroy, but it fails.
The shell is broken and the eyes are opened.
The roots take hold and there is green and newness.
It is supple and moist and there is promise

And as we once skirted the embankment of mystery
Loving the velvety texture of night
Craving the acrid, caustic, dimly lit trenches
Embracing the Beauty
 the disguises 
 the distorted
 the filth

These have burned away in the fire.

We emerge years later to find there is no armor
There is no shell
There is no hiding

But there is no fire

Memories will come and we will be sickened by how 
fondly we remember our captor.
The great trickster.

But there will be no fire.



© Copyright 2017 JM Sanchez. All rights reserved.

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