Fire Door

By living in the rapids of the world,
The doors of the soul remain closed.

The sizzling fire and the rising heat
Remain unreached

Far off in the corridors
From the root of the stairs,
The fire does not cease to exist.

The ardor of life waits behind fire doors,
Who would have guessed ?

Sometimes stories are told
About someone who would push one of these doors,

Captivated by fire, noises, heat, this person creates the in-draft.
There, the fire must consume everything.

You also need to have walked down the corridors,
Back and forth, up the floors, panting, down again
In desperation, lean on one of the swinging doors,
Opening them a little, not running away when the skin ignites and the flames crackle.

Do not close them,
Don’t come back to playing
Gentleman, lady, dad, mom,
Playing shops

Don’t play either the fire tamer.
The heart must be on fire,

Let the furniture, objects, desires, and the past floors
Be consumed and thrown into the hearth.

That once covered with the fiery breath of the soul,
There was nothing to lose, nothing to burn,

Nothing that we have not already lost.

The heart, the skin, the eyes, the hair
Everything warms up and comes alive
In the width of inner eyes, space awaits.

Everything was dead.
To still grope for the corridors wall
Behind the secret doors
Simmers the fire of life.
Let the house burn.

©FJ April 2022
RecueilsParticipations
Groupe de Pratique
Many thanks to all

Un commentaire

  1. Been thinking along these lines.
    Who am I?
    We all, I think, hide behind… masks? Fire doors? But what we present to the world is the fiction we present to ourselves. We are fools of our own making, beguiled by what we want to see, until the real person cannot be discerned, nor reality recognised, if glimpsed.
    Who am I? How can I know?

    Aimé par 1 personne

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