The last few flames jumble around the wood logs,
dorning them with their tangerine cries.
heir inferno rages onwards,
ch spit exploding from the log has more vitriol from the last, more desperation with it.
Where once before those flames were warm,
A battle takes place now, a vicious, yet slowing, fiery storm.
They rise and fall with their all and all,
Yet the highs to which they'll rise are lower than the last flames could fall.
Desperation, true desperation, finally sets into the flame,
It fights against the cooling air, the breeze, the last splint of wood,
It tries, it tries, it tries so hard!
But alas, the wood around it is darkened and charred.
The final flames begin to settle and sway.
Their final stage of the grief of self, acceptance, comes their way.
For one last time they twinkle bright,
A stretch: To bow;
For what they've provided
Tonight the flames lost the fight and now this house is cold,
But so many times before their beautiful dances filled it with warmth,
As the flickering flames atop the hearth turned this place to home.
About the Creator
Tommy Ballard
I'm a professional writer, a poet, a digital artist and an amateur musician. In my free time, I'm often be found pondering magnets, breaking and entering random homes to steal locks of human hair, and dosing snoring sleepyheads with Zyns
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Outstanding
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Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
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Comments (1)
Simultaneously cozy, and alien. As if feeling at home whilst knowing you are not.