Friday, January 23, 2015

THE FIRE IS OUT

THE FIRE IS OUT

Bring down all the ladders and wind up all the hose.
The smell of ash is in the air, it permeates my clothes.
Radio the station and say you're coming home,
Notify your superiors with a flourish and a groan.
This building has crumbled to the ground with a grand and glorious shout.
You rescuers can all go home, the fire at last is out.

The flame is smoldering hopelessly below the seared debris,
This strange, disheveled lost abode that used to be the likes of me.
Like an ill wind that comes and bears no good,
My corpse it reeks of burning wood.
I flew too high and crashed head first into the lonesome sun,
And now I am beyond all hope and the help of anyone.

Hang up your hard hats and your gloves,
You troubled men I used to love,
I set my shackled prisoners free.
You no longer bear the burden of shoring up the likes of me.
Just pull your strands of yellow tape, to mark this lonesome scene,
The remnants of a life that soared that time has come between.

Hit the showers, for even you have had enough of ash and soot,
For a man whose sordid lonely dreams are in your way and underfoot.
Close up all your rescue nets, the ladder and the hook,
You were a gallant fighter and you did it by the book.
But even heroes see at last, a ship that's down and sinking fast.
I have met my lonesome match, I have no future but the past.
Nothing new to offer you, but the guillotine and noose,
I capitulate, you've arrived too late, and I must set you loose.

Let go your sirens and your flashing lights, go screaming back into the night,
And leave your rusted fire truck where it died on lover's lane.
An antique apparatus, lackluster and plain.
And leave my body where it fell, a gas mask still in place,
Stretched across the rubric of this ghastly ashen face.
A work horse that has run its course, whose majesty you once did tout,
You rescuers can all go home, the fire at last is out.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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