A Mile in the Fire

A Mile in the Fire

Hell is not flames, it’s the walk,

the bruising of good cheer.

A vile voyage, barefoot on embers of shame,

each step a contract with despair.

Judge me rightly, but only when your soles blister, when bruised the lustre of your soul,

when your breath tastes of smoke, of charcoal’s sinful spoor.

The world looks on, a grandstand of mongers, pleased and noxious,

applauding misery’s strife, I shudder.

But life, ever the mystery, a rewarder and punisher of disgrace and dignity, an enigma to the end,

there at pity’s gate, joy will come.

And that mean flood, of darkening abandon, there, calm will flourish,

and tame this wild injustice.