Fire is a beautiful thing.
Scrunch the paper, not too tight now.
The flick of a cigarette lighter, orange flame in the darkness.
The paper catches, bright fingers lashing out, dancing, caressing, consuming.
Breathtaking. Deadly.
A life of its own, twisting, stretching, warping, rolling, writhing.
Pleasure? Pain?
White becomes red, orange, black, gray ash. No more.
The flames leap and plunger, then flicker, their blood disappearing.
They sputter and die, the darkness returns.
Tiny lines of red continue to etch their way across the burnt
Darkness…………………finishing the job producing ash.
Irreversible. Irreparable. Final.
The squeak of a tap, the drum of water.
Ashes swirling, floating, disappearing down the drain.
Hands swishing, catching the strays.
Another squeak, a few drops.
The last of the water gurgles away.
The lighter thrown, lands with a dull thud in the empty bin.
Footsteps.
Slow, sad, footsteps.
Gone now.
All gone….
Because I have found…
All that shimmers in this world is sure to fade…
Away…
Again…
