They say the young have a flame within them.

But I think they need that flame to keep themselves warm,

Stretching their cold, old hands out to my fire to stop the numbness.

Little do they know, 

There's no fire in me, only smoke.

Little do they know, 

There's no passion left, only hope. 

The men and the future crept into my bed and my mind at night,

Kept me wakeful with grasping hands and words of worship.

They take me as if I am Holy Communion.

I, a sacrament? Better to call me baptism than eucharist. 

For I was plunged beneath the water 

Dousing my flames, until there is left

Only smoke.