Arrogence

We burned down like wicks in our favorite candles.
Neither of us wanted to admit that there was
no
real
hope
of maintaining
light
after we went to the trouble and pain
of finally sparking a flame.

With our fingertips singed from our efforts
and our eyes stinging from smoke,
we sat in the dark and pretended to romance.

Could we not have used a torch, a lamp, anything different to light our way?
Were we that blinded by habit?
The ashes of arrogance are cooling in the kitchen sink.
It seems to be the only place to put them for safekeeping.




M. Scofield 11/17/2009