The Flame [Poem]

The Flame

The flame grew brightest when you blew on it,
Moved it, and contorted it,
Pushed it from a sizzle to a flame,
But, you blew too hard,
Now the flame is gone,
The oxygen that brings life killed it, how ironic.
But has the flame truly departed?
It has changed form,
It's smoke floats upward to mix with the clouds.
It is never really gone,
The higher elevation is where the forest fires burn,
Constant and permanent markers of how powerful the potential of an ember can be.

Old Machinery [Poem]

Old Machinery

Gears grinding forward
Or maybe, grinding backward
Altered old machinery
Beyond recalls, beyond refunds
Only heard of short-circuits
Past news, still productive
Means nothing to many
Means everything to one
Can't run quickly
Can't stop running
The rust continues to build
But the machine won't die