There is a fire in the stove,
black metal hot.

Spent so long in the cold outside,
I forgot what the heart hearth holds.

A dark weaving wind
whispered it's dreams to me
and I seemed to flee.

But still,
the wandering wynding
way came out before me
as if made to be by walking;

as though no path exists
until it is walked,
like the electron is a wave
until I wave hello.

But somehow,
this black metal stove,
radiating from a chamber,
burning on the inside,

is and always is,
was and always was.

But for the cold dark wynding way,
I'd never know it's warmth.

A place I could never come
until the darkness took me.