The Fire

As soon as rain,
           at midnight getting louder,
Drowns anxious wasps,
           that hunt both heart and mind,
Their humming fades away;
No predator above them
Will dare to sting your dreams
            or choke your knight.

Below the strangled angst,
Which fled the conscious madness,
A frigid draft is rushing through the doors
And turning precious past
             into a hill of ashes —
Once kept me tight,
             though it must all be burned.

The fire catches rapidly in silence,
Not losing anything
              but only gaining more,
While fuel nourishes the will inside you.
By drawing farther
              end up always close.

The circle yet elongates to a spiral.
What seemed to be so large
               shrinks to the turning point,
Where hesitation reigns
               and sphinx its caring mother
Only this time the pilgrims have no choice.

Their restless mind’s
               convinced of their power.
There’s no way back —
               so they keep moving on.
Yet still, each floor
               of always growing tower
Serves heaps of views
               of what one night was burned.