The Last Cinder

Insides burn, yearning for it,
That last cinder calms me down and fires up the rest of my Id,
Words I spoke to the highest,
Birds flying,
Freedom tied in,
Trying to keep it,
Dying to fly;
Trying to defy it,
Random thoughts invade my privacy but death not apart from me, we’re all slaves to the struggle, but this cinder burns still.
Where would I be if I had thought too much? Would I, be still? Would I contemplate democracy?
Would a Hierarchy of believing keep my engine steaming?
Or is it this the last piece of hope that keep me breathing? Am I dreaming, when I stare into your eyes, I float from the adjacent corner to the other side of the room. My third person perspective, keeps me neglected, keeps me in check.
My fire burns cool but steady, ready to burst in flames at any second, recklessly abandoned to anyone at random.
I’m anxious over everything. Pouring a glass of water stresses me out. My hair taking the toll, the toll’s too expensive these days, I think it’s time for a raise, before this crazed lunatic rattles the cage, before  I upturn and the cinder takes my place.
Where did my sea go? I miss the waves ever so steadily kissing the shore, ever so ever making me whole. Wishing the past would come to the present and go back to the past to become a clearer memory,  when we would stay up all night and watch the moon descend, and the sun ascend, until it reached its highest peak.