Wakefulness
is the source of amnesia.
We flame and burn
to recapture the glow—
the sun, the stars.
Yet we endlessly fall
into the dream of this world, reality.
We swing,
between burn and blossom,
where fire ignites,
where harmony
transmutes… to flame.
A bloom
is a testament to fire.
Science cannot see this,
but art bears witness to transmutation.
Poetry is the verbal mime
of that alchemy.
