Distance

The secret of poetry is distance,
The smell of ash and embers,
Like incense,
Soothes,
Flames no longer raging
Can be recalled,
The threatening heat, subsided,
Can be touched,
Caressed,
Rolled around the senses –
Safe in the mind’s eye -
Memory fueled by remains –
That’s when poetry begins,
As all the heat of unfulfilled desire,
Passion, rage and pain,
Takes new form,
Intoxicating, aromatic,
Stimulating an aftermath of sensory impressions,
Raising the soul –
To tell all,
This distance -
Not a wall of protection,
But a natural transformation,
Of time,
Of compassion,
Necessary for poetry –
And for survival.