I'm ashamed to be so greedy
that I bite the hands that feed me,
that I'd ever be so needy
as to chain the hands that freed me.
She already gives me plenty--
yes, she loves me more than any
would, and yet I find that when we
part, my needs are still so many.
I should never need reminding
that her love is just as binding,
just as fierce and just as blinding
as the flames that have refined me.
Somehow, I allow this fire
to burn brighter, hotter, higher--
so much that it could deny her
all the warmth her spark inspired.
And I beg to have her shelter
when a rain would douse the smelter
yet, I know what I'd have dealt her
if she risked to stand and swelter.
So, I pray I'll still be burning
when the weather's lastly turning,
that the fuel for which I'm yearning
will not be, in vain, returning.
More, I pray the searing passion
won't pursue in standard fashion--
won't consume and leave her ashen--
or destroy her sweet compassion.
Yes, I beg that she'll abide me
and survive what I'm providing,
that she'll warm herself beside me--
lending fuel when I'm subsiding.
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