Aflame In Permafrost

By A.J.R. Mennon

A hundred doors knocked

And turned away from all.

None’d dare share in

The flame I made

Nor feel its warmth.

Alight after decades

Of frost has fallen

In a village which

Acts as if it’s warmer

Than it truly is—

From all suns hidden.

Castaway from flame

Its flickering music

Buried, forgotten

Only its danger

Seen as important.

Farther and farther

Off hotter essence

They drift, frigid

Fractured and lost.

Thick is the ice formed

Over windows,

Every door

To their souls.

Ice alone they’ve known

As mother, as God.

Oppressed by its tyranny

Imbibing all its fractures

Kept from and robbed

Of any sustenance

A flame may bring

Or any way it may light

To unexplored treasures,

But instead

Ever problematic

It’s considered

To spark it—even

Named a deplorable sin.

Still, I will preserve

This little flame I’ve

Sparked up until

The one in me dies

Hoping it’s in them

As well, as alive

Somehow still

Somewhere deep.

By A.J.R. Mennon