Grand buckets of water can quench the fire in our minds and hearts. The water is made of love and bliss and destiny and desires. Little bear to mention how sometimes little sacrifices add up like the bottom half of a snowman, snowballed down the mountain, accumulated and wrapped up in a snowy avalanche of good intentions. Grand buckets of snow may quench the fire, but it’s cold out, heavier. Ice is not kind to calloused and worn skin. We all need warmth and comfort now. Carefully watching the hearth, that crackling homey place we crave. Little wisps of smoke eek out of logs chopped in the forest. Somewhere in the snowy woods there is a warm meal and a warm bed waiting for you. Fireman stumble home with ashen faces and a slight cough. He removes his helmet and kisses his wife, whose lips and cheek now display soot.  Funny how in this moment she does not wipe it away, but deliberately decides to keep it; It is a piece of him she wants to never wash off. He smells of destructive fire and smoke. The last of his adrenaline is leading him to the shower, to the bed. To shut his eyes to this dream world and accept his unconscious realm as his reality.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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