Casey Gilfillan

Bring me to the fire, I am the freest when I feel it in my chest.
My hands, tools of feast and purchase, become the space in search of an answer,
There is none to be found. Stupid fingers, vying for the objectivity of meaning,
The scourge of purpose. Instead, there is just forward, more, and consequence.

Stupid brain, for thinking and leading the body to such a treacherous state.
Clothed in the leaf of shame, I learn once more never to listen to the whispering
Of relief. There is none to be found, no water for drinking. Just the fire,
That warms and scolds and illuminates. Without reason, but continuance.