The serpentine somnambulence of fire,
like a drop of a dragon, encapsulated in
pine kindling and smoking oak, the stone
fireplace watches her as she poems ink,
birthing galaxies on old parchment, and
as the flames grow, she sees sentences
dancing in the gold and orange, alight
muses nine of Apollo, burning just for her.
Under a catastrophic star he stares into the abyss of the flames. Forgotten love hibernates within the charcoal as he gazes at her lost wick. Castles drift in his mind as he wishes the blaze never died out. She stands in front of the tangerine edges seeing her soul be reignited.
There are bonds of ashes that settle like
the dust of an old book with intaglios of
her former lover in the flames, immolated,
she was a witch on a pyre for him, he was
gasoline poured onto her bonfire, and now
all that is left are dead nebulae and ghosts
of “I do.” She arises a phoenix, only to see
him, in the space between shadows, a ghost.
There are screams within the chandelier dreams. There are fires within the light, there is a glimpse of light in the flames. No matter where he turns, no matter where she rises, there will always be a breeze of ink. Hearts need to bleed, veins need to cry, and pages never fade. The gust of memories will live forevermore.
Dances with Tricksters – Italics
Braeden Michaels – Non Italics
It was a pleasure to collaborate with Allie. Please check out her blog!