Coal

We are all practically coals,
Rotten-up woods of old.
In charms of our own fears,
Destroying a human soul.

~

Among the streets of death, there once lived a coal.
A coal, I say.
What futility it seeks there?
Dark, hard, and young — carrying the beloved past,
Waiting for a chance to burn,
To light the skies of the present.

Little he knows of the world he lives in,
Though eager he is to learn.
But what could a coal learn?
That its presence is not for long?
That there are ample coals to burn?
A coal merely lives and dies,
Giving heat and light.
No one cares for the ashes left —
There is no time to yearn.

Black, sharp, and disturbed.
“Mature,” they call this one.
It burns brighter, sharper, and redder.
It has learned the ways of the world.
It has learned the faith of its kin.
When asked, “Any questions live in your thoughts?”
It says, “None live long enough to interrupt my job.”

Long, sleek, and fake.
In need of more, it was made.
Cheaper to procure and desperate to burn —
A reflection of the world’s stage.
“What else could I have been?”
It ponders this thought always.
“Who cares about my aspirations?”
This kills the previous question.

Among the streets of death,
Many coals are now dead.
Only their ashes remain.
“Were they ever alive?” — asks a human soul.