Strangely beautiful in its simplicity,
a bright orange fire in a cold winter night,
only cardboard ignited to eliminate trash,
the night so young,
all of six o'clock,
the familiar eerie feel,
a day done so soon,
never realized approaching doom.
I walk away,
flames strong and growing,
turn back,
a pop and flurry of orange sparks floating in the still night air,
and I realize,
for the first time in my life,
I have witnessed the exact moment,
that a fire dies.
It need not to be tended,
it need not air breathed into it,
simply it had nothing more to burn,
accomplished,
gone,
forgotten.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.08 seconds at 2:22am on Nov 14, 2024 via server WEBX2.