The Forgotten Flame

I stare into the flames,


watching them flicker and flash,

thin and transparent,

as if it's not really there.

Watching these flames,

you might almost believe in ghosts.

They lick along the wood,

leaving behind a saliva of black crisp.

They reach toward the sky,

ever higher,

not quite making it.

As if to push itself up,

it grasps the air around it with its fiery fingers

and spreads its heat.

Eventually, it becomes tired

and cold,

so cold.

It retreats into the warmth of the embers,

the wood,

the ashes.

Soon there is nothing left to sustain the flame.

It quietly blows out,

like a soft whisper,

a breath released,

traveling into the sky on one last wisp of smoke,




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