Whoa!   The anger.

This was written late summer, 1989. I must have gotten off the wrong side of bed the day (I didn't) that I wrote this.  I must have been far too negative in those days (I was), or I had a poor choice in friends (for some of them anyway).

Fire burning deep below
rises to the surface
Eveloping the container


its the fire that burns
and gives him life
A reason to live


Alas, the world is cold, far and distant
and the flames, not welcomed, rejected
World crushing out its life


Until only a few embers remain
almost snuffed out of existance
Why then, should he live?