at the pyre

the quiet city stirs to purge itself of nightmares in the cold. a street by the sea filled by people in their red and thousands. we follow the torches and the singing children with their costumes and fish down the asphalt veins in twilight. the traffic stops for our procession as we snake our way to freedom from regret for now. at the spot where the crowd meets the moon they fill a funeral pyre with our fears. a choir of mystics cast their spells to drum and trumpet as night falls over the mass of modern lepers and their phones. under neon red a crane gives flight to the effigy of an endangered species. we watch it glide on the breath of chants and expectation to crown the pyre as our sacrificial victim. another man in red climbs the ladder with a torch and a kaffiyeh. one flame to the wood of the frame is all it takes. clouds of red cough from the guts of the pyre into the wind before the fireworks make way for flames to cleanse our woes and warm our faces. razor orange tongues and the crackle of a hundred thousand fears. the quiet city stops and listens in the dark.

I look from the flames to the sparks of the ashes spinning out into the night. some of the fears fly away on the wings of the night to burn into the sky. they will all find their way back to us in time. til then at least we have the fire to keep us warm.