Here I play with fire - the pyrotechnic prodigal;
an element that burns me less
than that which I so fondly long to cast myself into -
allow her waves to swallow me down,
and drown in soft blue currents...
It seems a mirror image
of I game I have to play,
despite the bruises left upon my skin.
The flames dance around my open palm,
they brush my lips and twist my hair,
warm, and very gentle...
such power within...
The eyes staring back at me
lacked the flame clasped in my palm -
two placid pools of stagnant darkness,
a kiss - forced, and cold.
A mind run on too many thoughts
In tiny, tizzy circles... tired.
Unaffected.
Unforgiving.
Does rain come to douse the flame,
or does it really submit?
Does fire pull moisture from the air,
or does it merely posses it,
The flames dance captivate,
on my skin - barely contain?
moving, never burning -
until the water
puts it out again.
{CLeeB; 4.22.2009}
