Of Love and WarPaint

And fires in cold places.

Image by Scott Umstattd

I feel the fire die and the warmth fades as the ice of loneliness creeps in. I feel its Icy fingers caress my skin, begging to grasp my heart in its cold grip. I feel it whisper promises of numbness, a wanton existence on the road, flameless, bound to no fire but mine.

I look at the dying embers. But there was no Phoenix from these flames. Just the bitter paste of cold ash mixed with my tears. And I Streak my face with it. War-Paint. It is a warning. It is a sign. I have loved and lost.

On the road again. The bleak landscape dotted by lonely figures stumbling along with bundles on their back. Their hopes, their dreams, their fears, their losses are all twigs bearing down on their shoulders. And they hobble on, to glance into the eyes of the passing stranger and pray for a spark.

The fires in the distance promise the hope of warmth but the deepening fog shows only the light and never the shadow. The dim sun kisses the clouds but nothing comes through. And the wind, like a lover spurned, makes no attempt to rectify the resulting bleakness.

And there you were, your face streaked in paint. The dark ash streaked red below your eyes. Those beautiful eyes.  And they stared into mine.  And I felt that spark.

The flame called, begging to be lit. I reached for the flint. You reached for the wood. A spark and the fire lit. And there we sat, slowly feeding our hopes, our dreams and our fears to the fire.  And the bleakness faded. And your face lit up And in the dancing light of the flames, I could see you for who you are, Beneath the warpaint

#Fire #Love #Poetry #War