Their vial is empty,
Drained of all they had;
They hoped I would turn out the same,
And as they sat around the flame
I would be one of them too;
Staying down, wrapped in blankets,
My eyes nailed to the fire,
My ears glued to their tales.
But this feeling had to seep in,
It entered through my hardened side,
and I thought I was watertight.
I knew I had to walk,
Dusting their stories out of my hair;
The words slipped off easily as well,
That made it easier to snap the chain.
I walked back again to the fireplace today:
There was a patch of blackened earth,
Glowing embers lay alone;
Even the story tellers had left.
Grains of thought 