The Fire of the Fields

Among the rustling grass and swaying trees
I stand, breathing in the sweet autumn oxygen
which fuels the warmth of my relaxing solace. I
am alone here, the only living flame
in a town full of dead ashes with rotten
traditions. They greedily feed off of my fire,
using me to sustain their hatred and fear
of those different. They say I spread like a plague
on the town, bringing them down, a disease
of hellfire passion for genders of the same fashion.

I may be the only flame here, but that does not make me
a danger. I am a fire of warmth and care. My kindling
is one of love and tenderness which only burns to be loved
and belong. The fumes that breathe from my flame
are ones of spirit and soul that lift me up and open
my eyes. I wish they only do the same for others.

I do not desire to singe others’ hearts nor become a burning
rage, razing and smothering their town, for to do so
would be only to treat them as I have been treated,
which is in a manner no one should suffer. I am
a fire that burns as a torch to show the way, or as a campfire
to sustain the gentle warmth, or as a bonfire to display celebration
and rejoicing. But not as wildfire to burn away the homes
and lives of an entire village, even if they are the ones who burn
me so harshly I become numb. Often, I am caught
in the friendly fire of the people of my home, consumed by
a crossfire of hard insults and hateful preachings.

Yes, I am a fire, but I burn from the heart and the soul.
From my burning comes a rebirth, one which brings love
into the lives of others. My love has no boundaries,
no limitations, just an eternal burning passion that shines
into the hearts of everyone. But the people of my home
do not understand that. They fear and hate the glow
of my flame and do all they can to extinguish me. But you
cannot extinguish a flame ignited in love. Their hatred
only feeds strength to my embers. They cannot snuff
what they have fueled, allowing me to forever
burn with love.