With in my heart I feel a twinge, a sharp breaking, a strange unmaking as I cease to be again. A strange fading, this odd unmaking, as that cold settle in. It travels my bones, though I know they’re not old, and it stifles that fire of mine.
My furnace runs dark, the forge now unlit, if only, if only I had a steady hand and a friendly face, someone to hold the flame and tend that fire while I travel through, too often mind you, that cold and dark place.
Still I strike the flint alone, I shovel the coals and sweat alone as I travel through that dark place and mind my fire alone; to keep it lit and keep me warm and as a reminder that even in that dark place, that empty cavern of mine, even there the sun does rise and light does still exist.
If only I could find my way through it’s labyrinthine depths to a place in open air to see the sun light anew, if only I had a friend with a steady hand to hold my own, perhaps then this darkened place wouldn’t be such a task to make it through.
Still I toil away, with this guttering fire and this dying flame, if only for a hope, that tiny dream of mine, to leave this maze, this endless cave that holds nothing but screams and sorrow to see that glorious day, to see the dawn breaking and remember anew, I’m still alive and I’ve yet more to do.