The Grief Fire

I'm standing by a grief fire
that's been wanting to burn.

I finally laid the kindling

and hash-tagged small sticks, 

struck a match, and let 'er rip.

It lit up like a mid-January Christmas tree

the flames hungry for reconciliation.

I fed it more...

memories, hopes, wishes,

just twigs really

hot and hungry, wishing to escalate.

I grabbed the logs next...

the heaviest oak of priceless loss

that would burn relentlessly hot

until expended.

I wanted ash.

I wanted that flame obliterated,

but it had a life span I couldn't rush.

The embers kept their glow,

photo edges curling, snaps of time melting like wax

every dream drenched in gasoline.

I stood intimately close

gazing as my hair burned, my face gone,

dying along with the fire

and daring a Pheonix rise.