Fire goes where there’s fuel.
We claim the truth is what we want,
but resist the burning away of the false.
We seek consolation in borrowed beliefs
and are quick to defend our own self-images,
even though none of them are actually true
but just a bundle of thoughts and moods.
Truth is never a consolation –
all that seeks to be consoled
is just more fuel for the waiting fire.
All that cries out to be soothed, relieved, redeemed,
reborn, patched, patted, or pillowed just right is
never going to be just right, is going down
despite the clown whose yearning prayer
for the flames to spare this part or that
of its smoldering hair is answered
with even more fire.
Love is a furious flame.
All positions are positions in mind,
yet love has no fixed position
to assert, deny, or defend.
It just burns.
Without being refined in the furnace of love,
truth itself becomes a mental abstraction,
so love ushers the mind into silence,
the silence of coals and ashes.
Call love a fire — whatever says so
will also be consumed by it.
The caterpillar cannot understand
the butterfly, nor kindling the flame.
There’s nothing to understand but this:
fire goes where there’s fuel.