Fire in the night

Fire comes in the night,
sweeps through my dreams
burning all in its path.
When morning comes
I'm beached,
wrung dry,
a burnt-out hull
charred and broken.
Where there was light,
and color,
and functionality,
only the scent
and scrape of dark remain;
the cushion prayer provides
offers a small reflection of heaven
in a psyche
pitted with death and loss.
What now?
How shall I dispose of what's been burnt away?
And what new life will be revealed
when this old carcass is dragged from my shore?


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