A single spark, struck in the night
From the end of the slim wooden stake
Sputtered and grew, whilst an ashen trail
Was showered in its wake
Like a spitting spurt of water
It pursued with just one goal
One spark made two, of that came four
Until its demand was too great for its coal
Yet it still lived on, for the fire made sure
It would be known and remembered
And so the lone sparks all united to stand
A bed of flare in the glowing ember
Came forth a flame, so frail and weak
It danced and flickered to the breeze
But could go nothing wrong, for even the wind
Was hindered by imposing trees
The flame burned on, self-esteem high
Thought no chance of being fooled or foiled
And so let out a roar as it met its brethren
All licking at grass and soil
But that tongue of fire was- alas- correct
For now nothing could strip of its survival
Even if rain would wipe out its burn
The heat would ensure its revival
A ring, a sheet, a wall of flame
Pushing on without fatigue or tire
Final attempts though made to cease its life
The desperation but makes sparks fly higher
Unyielding, unfeeling, consuming
Everything in its deadly wrath
Maybe we humans are that terrible flame
Destroying all that comes in our path.
YOU ARE READING
The Artist's Palette- A Poetic Collection
PoetryThis anthology is selfsame to an artist's palette- poets carefully choose and blend their emotions on the creative panel of their mind before applying it in rationed amounts to the paper, the same way a painter would coalesce colors on a palette and...
