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Ventral suspension in a viscous liquid That’s what this feels like Like I’ve been holding my breath for years Drowning Not quickly like in a flash flood But slow sinking that starts when you’re legs give out When you’re wading the waters for too long You start to welcome death and slip under Sky and sea become one The waters above and the waters below Merge in a haze and as calm washes over you you wait for death to come But it doesn’t And as quickly as a spark catches You’re in the furnace again. The warmth inviting at first until you scorch your finger tips on the flames But try as you might you can’t escape this burning building Oxygen gives life to fire but you can’t seem to catch a breath So now my dear we’re slow dancing in a burning room And your body absorbs the heat and you’re melting from the outside in No longer recognizable: you are a glowing ember. Pretty to look at but dangerous to touch. It feels like no one has touched you without getting burnt You feel like the pretext to quotable scripture: the weakness before I can do all things, the ashes before beauty and ashes come from something consumed in the fire A song of fire and ice. This life either frozen or melting. What do they call it: the refinery. And diamonds are just pieces of coal that handled pressure well. You’ve learnt to breath in poorly oxygenated air. Some call that strength. Some call it survival. I call it cyanosis of the soul. I’ve gone blue. Ischaemia. Necrosis. A sword is forged by the process of heating and beating. We are hammered in to shape. Heated and cooled and heated again. Hardened and tempered before completion. Hard but not brittle. Sharp but flexible. I am but a blade being forged to be wielded in the hands of my maker.